


Five Times Poe Dameron Serenaded Finn

by beetle



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Post-Canon, Angst, BB-8 Ships It, Canon-Typical Violence, Chekhov's Gun, Close Calls, Coitus Interruptus, F/F, F/M, Failboats In Love, First Kiss, First Time, Force Bond (Star Wars), Force-Sensitive Finn, Hurt/Comfort, Idiots in Love, Inappropriate Use of the Force, Loss of Virginity, Love songs, M/M, Mentions of Llewyn Davis, Mind Manipulation, Not-so-Jedi Mind Trick, Oscar Isaac Singing, Past Poe Dameron/Muran, Pathfinder Finn, Post-Canon, Post-Star Wars: The Force Awakens, Protective Poe Dameron, Serenade, Songfic, Stormpilot, Temporary Character Death, That's Not How The Force Works, The Dark Side of the Force, Virgin Finn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-08
Updated: 2018-01-16
Packaged: 2018-10-16 08:09:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 29,628
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10567179
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beetle/pseuds/beetle
Summary: Five times Poe Dameron serenaded Finn. Not theonlyfive, but five that really matter :-)NOTE (02.09.2018): This fic is NOT on hiatus. I'm currently chipping away at it in tiny-ass steps. "Tiny-ass" mostly because I didn't finish the final chapter before TLJ was scheduled to leave my local theater. So, I saw it the final night of its tenure and . . . since then, nothing I write in this story makes a damned bit of sense and my brain/heart go haywire. The ending Ihadplanned makes less sense than thirteen o'clock. I can't tell if that's because it really doesn't fit, or because TLJ broke my head- and heart-meats so bad that until I recover from it--it's been two weeks, almost--nothing will make sense. But I'm trying. I haven't given up or forgotten, despite the loads of Dragon Age fic I'm turning out. I have to write or go nuts(er) and if the Stormpilot ain't flowin', I gotta writewhatever will. Being stymied so close to the end of THIS fic, however, is . . . enraging. My stubborn and contrary nature alone will keep me chipping away, rest assured. But it may take a few more weeks :-/





	1. The Measure of Things

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Skipchat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skipchat/gifts).



> Notes/Warnings: I take liberties with Poe's and Finn's backstory.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> mon·de·green  
>  **mändəɡrēn/**  
>  _noun_  
>  plural noun: **mondegreens**  
>  1\. a misunderstood or misinterpreted word or phrase resulting from a mishearing of the lyrics of a song.
> 
> Written for the FTH charity and the lovely, patient Skipchat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes/Warnings: I take liberties with Poe's and Finn's backstory.

**1\. The Measure of Things**

 

Straggling out of the mess, toward the hangar, travel-mug of caf in hand and Bee at his heels—beeping and blorping about the random bits of gossip he’d picked up while Poe was still _vividly_ dreaming about Finn—Poe alternated between rubbing his itchy, aching eyes and scratching at the unmown stubble making inroads on the bottom-half of his face. Not to mention the top of his throat.

 

The aggressive suns-light of Fan’Ost 6 made him wince and mutter, as if he was suffering an epic hangover. An epic, _extended_ hangover for most of every day since the Resistance had settled on the perpetually blooming, out-of-the-way planet, in an out—of-the-way binary star system eight months ago. And Poe, unfortunately, happened to be allergic to at least five of the eight major pollens in this quadrant of Fan’Ost 6.

 

Sniffling and snorting against near-constant post-nasal drip, he let his aimless feet carry him into the shade of the hangar, past his pilots—all of whom waved or saluted their commander, only to receive grunts and bleary, red-eyed acknowledgement in return—to the back of the structure, where the astromechs and some of the hangar’s service droids liked to congregate and recharge. Obviously divining where his pilot was going, Bee raced ahead of Poe, his bleeps going from quiet and gossipy, to loud and hailing. He was instantly greeted by a chorus of beeps and blorps, in return.

 

Sighing when Bee disappeared around the partition that gave the droids a bit of privacy from the rest of the busy hangar, Poe stopped and sipped his caf. It was sweet, scalding hot, and black—just the way he liked his men, as Pava had so graciously noted on several occasions, though thankfully not in front of Finn—and took a moment to enjoy the way it burned down to his stomach, and cleared his head of extraneous and unhelpful thoughts and images. For a few seconds, anyway. Then his attention was all on the low, pleasant, but uncertain voice trying to quietly warble an old standard Poe hadn’t heard since . . . probably since he was a teenager on Yavin 4.

 

Though, he’d certainly heard it quite a bit before _that_ . . . before his mother died.

 

It was so unusual to hear it now, that he stood, floored, and listened, letting the familiar, and surprisingly long-missed words wash over him, bringing both memory and feeling, wistfulness and regret.

 

“Oh, hover, don’t turn! Aweigh!/ The future’s bangin’ on your door./ Won’t you just let it in,/ With teeth sinkin’ in,/ Beggin’ you to spin?/ They sigh—wrens sing—so, say it now:/ Before the candle’s out,/ Before the clocks tick off their arms,/ And dour memories are s’ old,/ When hope was still a float./ Now, we make gloves by the roooooad. . . .”

 

Okay, so . . . Poe’d never heard the old standard _quite_ like _this_.

 

Shaking his head in utter bemusement at Finn’s . . . _creative_ version of the lyrics, Poe’s feet finally carried him around the partition, where he found Finn, unsurprisingly surrounded by astromechs and service droids, all beeping and chattering at each other and at him. He was sitting tailor-fashion on the pollen-dusted floor, happily immersed in upgrading the optical sight on the blaster Han had given him, once upon a mission. There were a total of six droids (including Bee) around him in a semi-circle, the four recharging stands behind Finn as ignored as the tall, junk-littered table to Finn’s right and the shelf-riddled wall to his left.

 

Now, Finn was simply humming the rest of the song, while the droids were beeping and whirring everything from advice on Finn’s current project to reminiscences of other times they’d witnessed such upgrades . . . to _Bee’s_ beeping, which was all about how Rey had levitated Bee using the Force the previous day.

 

“. . . and _then_ , she made me somersault in a figure-eight pattern _ten meters_ above the ground! It was scary and _fun_! Does that not that sound scary and fun, Jacket-Thief?”

 

Finn, still fiddling with a tiny Harris wrench and a tinier nut, snorted—all the droids had their different nicknames and endearments for the humans they dealt with, and to most of them, Finn was simply _Friend Finn_. Though, thanks to Bee’s big mouth and even bigger memory, _Jacket-Thief_ , had caught on among a few of the saltier astromechs—and held up the blaster, to sight along his right arm for a few moments. Then, frowning, he set-to with the wrench again, unscrewing the small nut and removing the bolt.

 

“That _does_ sounds scary and fun, Bee. But mostly scary,” he added, interrupting his absent humming and his work to answer Bee, and smile at him for a second. Then he was focusing back on the blaster.

 

“I assure you, it was mostly fun!” Bee chirped happily, spinning in a circle. “Perhaps, if you are very nice to Friend Rey, and if she is not too busy, she might levitate _you_ , as well!”

 

Finn snorted again, his full mouth curving in a slight smile. “Perhaps she would. But that’s not really my idea of fun, Bee. Especially if I’ve eaten anything within the past six days.”

 

Bee made a soft, sighing blorp that was his equivalent of a pout. “You are very boring, sometimes, Jacket-Thief.”

 

“Bee!” Poe squawked, mortified. Finn’s head whipped up, his gaze immediately finding Poe’s. Then he blinked and smiled, small and rather shy.

 

“Yes, Friend Poe?” Bee beeped innocently. Poe didn’t buy it for one second.

 

“That’s the kind of opinion we keep to ourselves, remember?”

 

Bee’s response was to spin in a circle again then scoot close to Finn, bumping his left knee companionably. (The other droids quickly moved out of Bee’s way. In droid hierarchy, Bee was a pretty big deal.) Finn chuckled and patted Bee’s dome fondly, seeming to not be offended at all.

 

“Ah, it’s okay, Poe,” the younger man said, still holding Poe’s gaze before looking down at Bee with an amused, sardonic smile. “I’ve worked very hard to be boring since I woke up. Glad to know that hard work wasn’t for nothing.”

 

“Well,” Poe said gruffly, clearing his suddenly dry throat. “I hate to break it to ya, Finn-buddy, but . . . you’re the _least_ boring person I know. And I know an Organa, a Skywalker, and their extended family.”

 

Finn’s smile widened into a grin and he looked up from Bee’s antics to grace Poe with that unconsciously charming expression. “That, you do. Though, if that’s the kinda life and history it takes to not be boring . . . I don’t think I mind being somewhat dull.”

 

“Ahhh, Bee’s just talkin’ outta the ass he doesn’t have.” Bee made a mechanical squawk and rolled his dome toward Poe as if affronted. Poe made a face right back. “You’re _plenty_ interesting.”

 

“Eh. Only because of circumstance, not because of . . . cultivation.” Finn shrugged and looked down at his partially dismantled blaster again, as if he couldn’t remember why he was even holding it. “Anyway. Um. What’s up?”

 

“I, uh,” Poe began awkwardly, shifting a bit from foot to foot, before taking a large gulp of his still-steaming caf, having forgotten it was three degrees away from being molten. Unprepared for it, this time, he spat the liquid out—luckily enough not in Finn’s direction—spattering Karé’s R4 unit liberally. It blorted and bwahped at him dourly, trundling off past Poe—over the toes of his left foot—and around the partition, its loud complaints trailing after it like a bridal train. The other droids tittered weird, beepy-boopy giggles and chortles, Bee included. Finn, gazing on the small, mechanical crowd surrounding him with not a little bemusement, huffed a small chuckle and looked up at Poe with twinkling, dancing eyes.

 

“So. _That’s_ all I have to do to get rid of her? Spit caf on her?” he asked only half-jokingly. “Noted!”

 

“She’s been, uh, buggin’ ya, huh?” Poe inquired, raising his voice slightly over the droid-laughter, and Finn rolled his eyes.

 

“Does she, ever! All she talks about, lately, is how much noise Karé and Kaydel make when they, um. . . .” he gave the impression he was blushing as he looked down, with twitching lips and jumping eyebrows. Though it was impossible to tell about the blush for sure with that gorgeous sienna skin. “Anyway. She can be a one-note song, sometimes.”

 

“Yeah. I know how that goes,” Poe replied, eyeing a Bee who was being aggressively precious, making ridiculous tiny churrs and whirs as he butted Finn’s unoccupied hand like an affection-starved cat. Shaking his head at the droid’s attention-seeking, Poe sighed and met Finn’s dark eyes again, and found it momentarily difficult to breathe.

 

That was happening a lot, lately: to the point that some hours or days, it was best just to avoid Finn’s gaze—and Finn, himself—all together.

 

Sighing again, Poe took a more careful sip of his boiling caf, rocked back then forth on heel and toe, and ventured a tentative: “Speaking of, uh, songs . . . I heard you.” Off Finn’s blank look, Poe cleared his throat once more and fought a blush of his own. “Before. Before I came in here. I heard you, um, singing.”

 

Now, those bright, warm dark eyes shuttered and Finn looked away nervously. “I—sorry. I didn’t mean to—I thought I was alone but for these guys.” He swept his free arm out to indicate his droid-y audience. “They don’t seem to mind my—when I forget myself and, um . . . make noise, so—”

 

“You have a nice voice,” Poe interrupted Finn’s habitual self-castigation to offer his own habitual praise. And it was a measure of how deeply-ingrained that extreme modesty and self-deprecation was— _had been_ —by the First Order, that Finn, nearly a year after defecting, still felt the urge to apologize for having needs and desires, quirks and flaws . . . for being _human_.

 

Finn met Poe’s gaze with wide, disbelieving eyes. “I . . . that’s kind of you to say. But I shouldn’t have been singing,” he eventually said, and Poe leaned back against the partition, settling himself in for what General Organa called a ‘teachable moment.’ There were a lot of those when Finn Solo— _Finn’s_ choice of a last name, to honor the late General Solo—was one’s best friend. “It’s . . . distracting and unpleasant for others to put up with my lack of focus and consideration.”

 

Poe shook his head. “Maker’s bones, Finn . . . you’re not _there_ , anymore. You know that, right? You don’t have to parrot that shit they tried to cram into your skull to me _or_ to yourself.” When all Finn did was stare at him with practically no comprehension, Poe pushed himself away from the partition and made his way to Finn and his pals. The droids all made room for him, except for Bee, who finally budged over a bit when Poe nudged him with his foot. Then, Poe dropped carefully into tailor-fashion, as well. He placed his caf next to his leg and a curious BB-5 unit who flew with one of the new pilots, Lex Vallory.

 

With a deep breath taken and a suspiciously cuddly Bee butting his knee for attention—which Poe absently gave in the form of a pat on the dome—Poe looked Finn in his uncertain, vulnerable eyes, and spoke.

 

“ _You_ have a _good_ voice, Finn. But even if you didn’t—even if your voice was worse than Pava’s when she sings those Nabooese pop songs in the ‘fresher—this isn’t the First Order. There’s no penalty for being _happy_ . . . happy enough to _sing_.” Poe searched Finn’s eyes and found that he could almost _see_ the realization that he was _not_ with the First Order anymore, happen all over again. As it did at least once a week, even nine and a half months after the fact. “You can sing whenever you want, whatever you want, however you want. And if someone doesn’t like it, they’ll just tune-out.”

 

Finn swallowed, looking down at Poe’s none-too-clean grey t-shirt. “I don’t . . . I don’t wanna be inconsiderate of other people’s right to _not_ hear me butchering a song I’ve only ever heard a few times, from a damaged sound chip that Slip—um, FN-2003—somehow got his hands on.”

 

At the mention of FN-2003—a touchy subject for Finn . . . especially since he and Poe were _both_ pretty sure that Poe was the one who shot Finn’s first almost-friend, and _Finn_ wasn’t the only one who was unsure how he felt about that likelihood, circumstances aside—Poe’s face fell for a moment, but he was quick to crank it back up into a friendly expression that felt more like a grimace, for some reason.

 

“Like I said: If someone doesn’t like it, they can tune-out or walk away. Or even ask you to stop, which I kinda doubt will ever happen, since you have such a rich, naturally in-key voice.” Poe shrugged as if complimenting Finn was something he did every day. Which it kind of _was_ , but the sweet, mouth-drying, stomach-clenching novelty of it had yet to wear-off with time and, if anything, seemed to grow stronger with frequent practice. “But even if you didn’t, even if you _were_ Pava, singing N-Pop in the 'fresher—while _some of us_ are trying escape the horrors of living in this allergy-Hell, via hot water and expensive, scented body wash shipped from home—no one would think badly of you or not want you here for singing old standards like _The Measure of Things_. And so well, too.”

 

Finn blinked. “Is . . . is that the name of the song I was singing? _The Measure of Things_?”

 

Graciously allowing Finn to change the subject without calling him on it, Poe nodded. “It is, indeed.”

 

“And . . . you’re familiar with it?”

 

“You could say that.” Off Finn’s air of patient expectation, Poe’s smile slipped again. This time, he didn’t quite have it in him to shore it back up, what with fighting the two-decades-old ache in his chest and the sudden tension in his shoulders. “It was, ah . . . my parents’ song.”

 

Finn’s already wide eyes widened further. “They owned a _song_?”

 

“What? No!” When Poe laughed, it was genuine, as was the slight, but noticeable easing of the hurt in his heart and the tension in his shoulders. “They didn’t own the song, they just—they really liked it. And sometimes, when a couple really likes a song, they kinda make it, y’know, _their song_. The song they listen to and dance to—even at their wedding. Or while they’re conceiving their first-born child,” he muttered ruefully, still not certain how he felt about that little tidbit Kes Dameron had let slip. “When both halves of a couple really think a song sums up their feelings for each other, they call it their song. And for my folks, that song was _The Measure of Things_.”

 

“Oh . . . wow. . . .” Finn sighed, smiling a little. That ache in Poe’s heart amped up again, but it was different, this time. It’d turned sweet and yearning. “Wow, that’s . . . really cool.”

 

“Yeah . . . and my parents were the coolest couple. Hands down,” Poe said softly, remembering all the times he’d watched his parents dance to that song and others, or cook together, or listened to them tell him stories—then argue good-naturedly over details. “Just . . . the best.”

 

“They sound like it,” Finn said, sounding wistful, once more, but not quite sad. He always sounded that way, when the talk turned to parents and family. “I mean, you don’t talk about your mom a lot, but your dad sounds really great.”

 

“He is. So was she.” Poe managed a less grimace-like smile—rarely hard to do when Finn was to be the recipient of said smile—and shrugged again. “Maybe you’ll get to meet my dad, someday.”

 

“I’d . . . I’d like that. I’d like that very much.” Finn leaned forward eagerly, as Poe kicked himself. Then _reminded_ himself that for now, Finn didn’t realize the possible significance of being taken to meet someone’s parents. Of course, such an event didn’t _have_ to imply romantic intentions on Poe’s part, but if taken in the context of the fact that Poe was distressingly lacking in chill around Finn—so much so, that the only person who didn’t know how Poe felt about Finn, was _Finn_ —once someone as smart as Finn finally learned to read the social cues of non-First Order people . . . Poe might have a spot of explaining to do.

 

“Yeah, and, uh . . . he’ll like you, a lot. Both of you being Pathfinders, and all.” Poe fought a fierce blush. He knew, for a fact that his father and Finn would get on like a house on fire. Aside from the Pathfinder-thing—and the fact that Poe had apparently talked about Finn enough that his father had begun inferring certain things about the nature of his and Finn's relationship—Kes had also expressed an interest in meeting “your young man,” more than once. And the only other time he’d done _that_ had been with Muran. . . .

 

But Kes and Finn had more in common than Poe was ever going to admit out loud. They were both as stubborn as brick-built outhouses, innately decent and honorable, ridiculously kind, and possessed of remarkable senses of humor despite the shit hands life had dealt them.

 

“Yep. You two are a lot alike . . . of course, my Dad didn’t have one of those,” Poe added, gesturing at Finn’s left hip. “Thank the Maker for small favors.”

 

“What? Oh!” Finn glanced down at the lightsaber hanging from his belt and, for some reason, blushed so deeply, Poe could almost see it under his smooth, dark complexion. Then he brushed the weapon with his fingers lightly, reverently, as if he still couldn’t believe it was his. And maybe, even after three months of practicing with it, he _couldn’t_. “Yeah. A Pathfinder with a lightsaber . . . seems like I’m an oddball wherever I go.”

 

Finn’s was a mostly joking tone, but with hints of rue for the ears that would hear it. And Poe’s ears were attuned to _all_ of Finn’s nuances, at this late date.

 

“It’s not _weird_ , you know? Being a Pathfinder who wields a lightsaber is . . . uncommon, I’ll grant you. Maybe a rarity even back in the days of the Old Republic. But weird?” Poe shook his head and smiled. “Never that. It’s . . . fantastic, I think. And besides,” he said, grinning, then leaning in to look at the elegant, but not-quite-delicate grip of the saber at Finn’s side. When activated, Poe knew, the blade was a warm, goldenrod color, unlike Luke’s intense electric-blue or Rey’s bleeding, buzzing green. “It’s an honor to have a _lightsaber_ choose _you_. Or so I’ve heard. Especially when that saber was made by General Leia Organa, herself.”

 

Finn’s smile was small and slow, but firm. He met Poe’s gaze shyly, though. “Maybe it only chose me because it thought I’d become a Jedi, like Rey. Maybe . . . maybe I should’ve, y’know? I mean, we’re both receiving the same training from Luke. Maybe I should’ve just . . . become his padawan.”

 

“I dunno, Finn. I can’t say what you _should’ve_ done. Only that what you’re doing _now_? Is amazing. You’re an incredible asset to the Resistance, and not just because of all the stuff you know about the First Order. And besides that, you’re also. . . .” Poe licked his lips and flushed. “You’re a good man—one of the best men I’ve ever met—and a good f-friend, too.”

 

Finn’s eyes flickered and he glanced down at Bee, who beeped a quiet: “Is something wrong, Jacket-Thief? You look sad,” at him. Smiling, Finn, shook his head.

 

“Nah, I’m fine, Bee,” he said softly, placing his hand on Bee’s dome, not far from Poe’s. So close, in fact, that Poe had to resist the urge to let their fingers touch . . . brush . . . link.

 

It was . . . difficult.

 

“Now, _you_ look sad, too, Friend Poe,” Bee informed Poe, and a chorus of droids beeped and booped their agreement, domes swiveling back and forth between Poe and Finn.

 

“Nobody’s sad, Bee,” Poe said—lied, by half—to his mischievous, but ultimately well-meaning astromech. “Just . . . pensive, maybe. Thinking about roads not taken.”

 

“Yeah. Yes,” Finn agreed, sending a warm—but, yes, _sad_ —smile Poe’s way before turning his attention back to his blaster. This wasn’t idle tinkering, either. Though he had his own lightsaber, Finn still carried and used his blaster on missions, and tended to use it far more than the saber, despite having the same inherent and eerie talent with a lightsaber as Rey . . . if not quite the same level of skill, just yet.

 

Though Finn could wield both blaster and saber together, in tandem, perfectly. For he had done so, on a mission with Poe that’d gone horribly pear-shaped.

 

In close quarters in a skeevy bar on Tatooine, Finn had been fighting a stormtrooper with an electro-rapier that was like someone’s clunky idea of a saber divorced from the Force. Poe had been cornered by three troopers with blasters, all ready to fire. And, at a distance of a mere three meters away, even stormtroopers wouldn’t have missed Poe.

 

Wouldn’t have, but for the rapid blaster shots from Poe’s left that took them out, one-two-three, snicker-snack.

 

Poe, who’d been prepared to die, had stared at the pile of dead troopers for a moment, then looked to his left to see Finn, still battling the rapier-wielding trooper, singlehandedly. For a few seconds, anyway, and then he was dropping the blaster General Solo had given him and holding his own saber—which’d only chosen him about eight days prior to that mission, much to the surprise of everyone, except General Organa and Luke—in both hands and putting his full power into fighting the trooper.

 

They’d almost been evenly matched. But Finn, new to the weapon and the fighting style as he’d been, had begun to flag and give ground. The trooper was quick to press his advantage, backing Finn steadily toward a corner.

 

It’d been a good thing Poe, who knew just when to fight dirty, had shot the bastard with one of his comrades’ blasters before he could eviscerate Finn.

 

Now, watching Finn’s blunt, precise fingers tinker with the blaster—he had a knack for calibrating, using, repairing, and even building weapons—Poe realized that they’d saved each other’s lives more times than either of them had probably bothered counting.

 

“Say, Finn, buddy,” he blurted out, before he could think better of it. Finn grunted, but didn’t look up from his modifying. At least not until most of a minute had passed without further word from Poe.

 

“What’s up?” he asked, squinting at Poe as if Poe was the sight at the end of a blaster. Or maybe the target in its cross-hairs. Poe looked down at his hands, one on Bee’s dome, the other resting on his knee, and swallowed. Then he cleared his throat and opened his mouth, curious to hear what would come out.

 

“[Oh, lover, don’t turn away!/ The future’s bangin’ on your door!](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FDMXMfA2gfc)” he sang in an earnest, slightly scratchy, long-underused tenor. Both his and Finn’s eyes widened at the soft, melodic strains that seemed to fill the partitioned room, despite Poe’s attempt at making his voice—the pride of his youth, after his flying skills and his ability to talk his way into anyone’s pants since he was fifteen—small enough that it wouldn’t carry to the hangar, at large. Faltering at the thought of any of the others—even _Snap_ and _especially_ Pava—hearing him basically serenading Finn Solo in public and thus gaining more ammunition for their mockery of his unusual shyness where Finn was concerned, was mortifying.

 

But, having started—having those deep, dark eyes on him, surprised and mesmerized—he found he couldn’t stop. So, in spite of a pause that was just a fraction longer than it should’ve been for the next measure, he went on, far too aware of the silent attention of his audience of five droids and one human:

 

“Won’t you just let it in,/ With teeth sinkin’ in,/ Beggin’ you to sin?/ The sirens sing, so, say it now,/ Before the candle’s out;/ Before the clocks tick off their arms;/ And our memories are sold,/” Poe held Finn’s eyes while he sang, only to then close them as he let the last two lines of the first stanza sigh out of him with a mournful, yearning soulfulness that he couldn’t hide and hoped Finn couldn’t decipher. After a decade-plus of being his buddy, Bee probably _could_ read Poe like an open book. But at least the little droid wouldn’t _say anything_ about the hearts scribbled on Poe’s pages . . . right? “When hope was still afloat./ Now, we make love by rote. . . .”

 

TBC

 


	2. Hang Me, Oh, Hang Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> BB-8 gets worried, Poe gets his head out of his ass, Finn gets a primer on Llewyn Davis _and_ Poe Dameron, and the, ahem, plot, gets thicker.
> 
> Written for the FTH charity and the lovely Skipchat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes/Warnings: I take liberties with Poe's and Finn's backstory.

**2. Hang Me, Oh, Hang Me**

 

“Hang me, oh, hang me./ I'll be dead and gone./Hang me, oh, hang me./ I'll be dead and gone./ Wouldn't mind the hanging,/ But the layin' in a grave’s so long, poor boy,/ I been all around this world. . . .”

 

Even before Finn was halfway from the Mess to main hangar, he didn’t need BB-8 to lead him to his pilot. He simply followed those smooth, melodic—melancholic—strains to their source.

 

Fan’Ost 6’s suns had long since set and its three moons were in various stages of rising: pale-cream Ziesa was already high in the sky, looming like a giant pearl and casting its radiance all over the hemisphere; Lugaal was lowest on the horizon, a silver-grey louver, adding to the overall brightness of the landscape; and, most distant, but not as small in size or distance as Lugaal, Norn was nearly drowned out by the light of her sisters, recognizable as a faint, tan shadow.

 

And fainter, still, the galactic sprawl of the stars, like a jeweler’s velvet speckled with small diamonds.

 

Finn stood for a minute, gazing up at the sky—he thought it strange that he’d spent at least ninety-five percent of his life ship-side, and only now, had he gained an appreciation for the beauty of the stars—and listening to the sad strains of the unfamiliar, but haunting song:

 

“I been all 'round cape Girardeau,/ Parts of Arkansas./ All around cape Girardeau,/ Parts of Arkansas./ Got so goddamn hungry,/ I could hide behind a straw, poor boy./ I been all around this world. . . .”

 

“Friend Finn?”

 

BB-8’s query—along with the unprecedented use of Finn’s actual name—recalled Finn’s attention from the heavens to the ground. He looked down at the spheroid droid, whose dome was inclined up at him, cocked at a questioning angle. “What’s up, Bee?”

 

“Are you alright, or is something wrong?” the droid beeped, seeming even more anxious than he had when he’d rolled up to Finn—at speed, and trilling that it was _imperative_ that Finn follow him to help Friend Poe _immediately_ —as the former stormtrooper had waited in line at the mashed fenig tubers station with his empty tray and glass of synth-milk.

 

Suffice it to say, BB-8’s concern and uncharacteristic upset had spurred Finn to hurry along, tray and glass shoved at a lanky Twi’ilek recruit, jogging after a bleeping, worried BB-8.

 

Now, he smiled reassuringly at the droid. “Sorry, Bee. Nothing’s wrong. Just got distracted.”

 

BB-8’s body spun in place, but his dome remained focused on Finn.

 

“Friend Poe is that way,” the droid insisted. And: “He needs you! He is unwell! He is singing the sad-song!”

 

Finn listened for a few seconds, as the soft, lonely, and yes, _sad_ song reached his ears, and the statement on his lips— _How unwell could he be, if he’s singing so beautifully?_ —died a swift death.

 

He had never heard a sadder song or sadder singer in his entire—admittedly music-light—life.

 

Before BB-8 could say anything else, Finn was hurrying, once again, toward the source of the song.

 

#

 

 

“[. . . Put the rope around my neck,/ And hung me up so high./ Put the rope around my neck,/ Hung me up so high./ Last words I heard 'em say:/ ‘Won't be long now ‘fore you die, poor boy.'/ I been all around this world.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=X672aJ3iytY)”

 

Finn approached Poe, who was touching up the paint on Black 1’s hull: the orange of his call-sign. He was still singing softly, seemingly immersed in his task, his white t-shirt smudged with paint, his olive-colored cargo pants covered in both paint and oil. There were also smudges on his arms and one orange splotch on his cheek Finn could make out from a distance.

 

And he closed that distance fast and silently, BB-8 a fretting presence at his heels, also silent, for once, but for the slight mechanical churring of his mysterious inner workings.

 

“Poe?” Finn announced himself haltingly when he’d just about more than halved the distance between himself and the pilot. Poe started, jumping a little and dropping his paintbrush as he whirled around to face Finn, eyes wide, and one hand coming up to clutch his chest.

 

“Oh, Maker!” he sighed, laughing a little, soft and vaguely nervous, his eyes ticking from Finn to his astromech, then back. “It’s just you two.”

 

“Yeah—sorry, didn’t mean to, uh, startle you. . . .” Finn blushed and shifted, trying to sneak peeks at Poe in-between staring at his own boots and avoiding Poe’s gaze. (Not that Finn was an eye-connoisseur, but Poe had the most _gorgeous_ eyes he’d ever seen: deep and dark, warm and wise. And that perennially amused, always kind gaze discombobulated Finn intensely . . . made him forget how to communicate effectively—mostly because looking into Poe’s eyes made him forget _what_ he wanted to communicate, altogether.

 

Truth be told, Finn could have stared into Poe’s eyes for all eternity without a word passing between them, and _still_ not have felt the need to break the divine silence.)

 

The older man didn’t look unwell, per se, despite BB-8’s alarm. He seemed a bit tired; his normally relaxed posture and bearing were more slumping than laid-back, there were faint grey circles around those marvelous, luminous dark eyes, and his tanned skin was pale underneath his complexion.

 

 _Tired_ , yes. But not . . . _unwell_. At least, not _physically_.

 

“What?” Poe asked, his brow creasing in a scowling furrow, his mouth—the less said or thought about that _mouth_ , the better for Finn’s sanity—turning down in a frown. Finn realized he’d been caught scrutinizing his friend’s face and hurriedly looked away. At Black 1, for lack of anything else nearby, but other X-wings, the nearest of which was Jess’s. “What’s wrong?”

 

“Nothing, Poe, just . . . are you . . . okay?”

 

For nearly a minute, Poe didn’t answer. When Finn risked a look up, Poe was gazing at him with narrow-eyed suspicion.

 

“Whaddaya mean, am I okay?” he demanded with fake-nonchalance, crossing his arms over his chest and taking a few steps toward Finn. Then a few more. It was more of a prowling stalk than Poe’s usual saunter—more vine tiger than tooka. Finn had to resist the instinct to back away. Especially since he’d probably trip over BB-8 and crack his skull open on the tarmac or jar his still-prone-to-aching spine. “Why _wouldn’t_ I be okay?”

 

Finn glanced down at BB-8, whose body was revolving worriedly below his dome, which was aimed at Finn, several lights blinking and winking in a way that the ex-stormtrooper could’ve sworn was . . . _frantic_. “Uh . . . you . . . aren’t sick?”

 

Poe’s frown deepened. “No, I’m not. Why would you think that?”

 

“Um.” Making every effort not to glance at BB-8 again—Finn wasn’t about to rat the little droid out to a Poe who was clearly in a _bad_ mood . . . perhaps that was what BB-8 had meant by unwell—Finn tried on a smile. “N-no reason, just . . . uh . . . I haven’t seen much of you the past several days and, um . . . I was worried.”

 

Poe blinked, his frown melting into an unreadable, expressionless mask. “So, what, now, you’re the Poe-police?”

 

Stung, Finn actually did take a step back, this time, his blush turning painfully deep before he blanched and looked away again. Down at his boots, again. He shivered, despite the warmth of Poe’s brown jacket.

 

“No, I’m not.” Finn sighed softly, hunching his shoulders as he took another few steps away, no longer daring to meet Poe’s wary, watchful gaze. “I was just . . . concerned. But, you’re obviously fine, so I’ll—I’ll let you be.”

 

Finn had once again doubled the distance between them, shoulders up, head down, hands in the pockets of his trousers, when Poe’s voice rang out: “Finn—Finn, wait, I. . . ! Damnit, _Finn!_ ”

 

Poe caught up to Finn in a quick jog and took his left arm gently, tugging once to get Finn to stop. When Finn did, he didn’t look at Poe—didn’t need to, to know that BB-8 was at his pilot’s side, now, still revolving worriedly—just stared ahead of him, at the Mess, and beyond that, at a distance, the thick line of trees and flowering bushes that marked the edges of the cleared land. Above it all, the sky hung, perfect and precious and as ephemeral as it was eternal.

 

Finn absorbed this vista for a minute, taking slow, calming breaths.

 

“Friend Finn?” BB-8 chirped almost shyly. Poe hushed him, not unkindly, and Finn finally looked over at Poe, catching a worried and guilty look on his handsome face and regret in his dark eyes.

 

“Finn, I. . . .” the pilot began, low and slow and apologetic, before looking down at BB-8 as if the astromech had the answer to some important question. But all BB-8 did was stare back and manage to exude both concern and anxiety. Poe grimaced and cleared his throat. Darted a glance at Finn and turned a bit pink. “Uh . . . wanna hang around and keep me company while I touch-up Black 1?”

 

#

 

“So,” Finn said as he watched from a crate off to the side of Black 1, BB-8 thrumming and warm against his right calf. A few yards away, once more wielding a paintbrush at Black 1, Poe was humming absently as he carefully touched-up an edge of orange that butted a black swatch. “What was that song you were singing before?”

 

“Hmmmm. . . ?”

 

Smiling a little at Poe’s absent interrogative, Finn watched the play of muscles in Poe’s arm and back as he smoothly slid the brush back and forth. Then he sighed and shook his head almost ruefully.

 

“That song you were singing about . . . uh . . . hanging? And, um . . . a mountain?” he clarified timidly, and Poe’s brush stuttered, then evened out before slowing . . . slowing. . . .

 

“It’s a folk song from the Outer Rim—but it’s, ah, _especially_ popular in the Yavin System,” Poe said lightly, but tightly, his voice both casual and tense. His shoulders were squared and stiff, his spine a rigid ramrod. His brush strokes, though still even, were sharper, more choppy-precise and less languid. “It’s called _Hang Me, Oh, Hang Me_.”

 

Finn bit his lip. “Who’s it about?”

 

“Eh.” Poe shrugged negligently. “It’s a folk song. So, it’s about everyone and no one. Llewyn Davis, the guy who made it famous—I say _made it famous_ , because he never claimed to _write_ it . . . said he heard it during his travels in the Outer Rim, even though no one can trace the song to anyone _before_ Davis turned up on the Yavin supranet singing it—never expounded on what the song meant to him. Or any of the songs he sang. He just . . . _sang them_. And for my money, _his_ version of _any_ song is the best.”

 

Finn watched Poe’s brush strokes slow again as the pilot relaxed a bit. The tense muscles in shoulders, arms, and back uncoiled and began to release.

 

“I’ll bet he didn’t sing it as good as you do,” Finn said softly and Poe, far from tensing up again, as Finn had half-expected, began to laugh, long and low.

 

“Oh . . . you’re a sweetheart, Finn, but my voice is a cat bein’ kicked in the crotch compared to Llewyn Davis! They didn’t call him the Godfather of Folk for nothin’!” Poe glanced over his shoulder at Finn, grinning fondly. “My Pop has every chip he ever put out and a bunch of bootlegs of his live performances. One of my earliest memories is of my Pop sittin’ up with me when I was three. I’d caught the Iskaaran Measles from one of the neighbor-kids and Mom’d never had it, so she hadda go stay in town 'til I got better. Dad stayed up with me for four days while I itched and sweated and cried, singing me Llewyn Davis songs even while I slept.”

 

Finn smiled when Poe glanced over at him again, that smile widening when Poe returned it guilelessly. The ex-stormtrooper’s heart beat faster and his entire body felt hot all over . . . but he was used to those sensations whenever he looked at Poe.

 

(He’d once asked Rey what _she’d_ thought about it, while they were sparring. She’d grunted and parried so adroitly, then disarmed Finn, catching his staff as if flew out of his hand.

 

“What do I think?” Rey had snorted, and tossed Finn’s staff back at him, bringing hers up in a defensive pose as Finn caught and immediately went on the offensive with his. “I think you need to focus more on your blocking while we’re in the salle and less on Pretty Poe Dameron.”

 

Finn’d blushed and doubled down on his offensive. And he’d almost won, too, beating Rey back nearly out of the sparring circle. Only one more step and she’d be out of said circle, thus losing the match. . . .

 

But then, Rey’d grunted again and said: “Maybe you’re in love. I’ve heard people talk about it and it sounds just like that. Ghastly, really.”

 

So surprised that he’d frozen like a bantha in a Walker's headlights, Finn had promptly lost his advantage and the match-up, winding up on his backside, outside of the ring, with Rey standing over him, smirking. Then she was offering a hand to help him up. He’d taken it without shame, wincing at the slight twinge in his back.

 

“Have you ever . . . felt like that for anyone?” Finn had asked quietly as Luke approached from the spectator stands surrounding the salle. “I mean—been in love?”

 

Rey had frowned just a little: her thoughtful frown, not the frown that meant she was about to go for her lightsaber. “Maybe,” she allowed tersely, nostrils flaring and cheeks pinkening. “You?”

 

Remembering a young man with a quirky smile below bright grey eyes and—shortly on the heels of that doomed friend—a girl with solemn hazel eyes and smile that was as pretty as it was rare, Finn had smiled limply at that girl. “Once or twice.”

 

Rey had grunted once more, her brow knitting together as if she’d been presented with a problem. Her eyes had flicked over to their fast-approaching Master. “Maybe you should ask Luke. If anyone’d know. . . .”

 

Finn’s nose had wrinkled. “But he’s a _Jedi_. Aren’t they . . . you know . . . _above_ that sort of thing?”

 

“Dunno. We’ve never talked about it.” Shrugging, Rey’d stepped forward, intercepting Luke. “Luke—what do you know about love?” she’d asked bluntly, causing Finn to wince and Luke to look just the tiniest bit gob-smacked. Then, his customarily serene and slightly amused mask was back.

 

“Why’re you asking?” Luke’s brows had risen, politely curious and pleasantly surprised. “Is this about young Lieutenant Pava?”

 

“No!” Rey’d blurted out, turning red, her nostrils flaring more than ever. “ _I’m_ _not_ asking. _Finn_ is.” Another careless shrug—or it was aiming to be. It was jerky and defensive, instead. “He wants to know if he’s in love.”

 

“With Poe?” Luke had snorted and Finn’s mouth dropped open in a gape. “Well. I wouldn’t call myself an expert on infatuation, but if it growls like a rathtar and _gorges_ like a rathtar. . . .”

 

“Wait—what does Jess—er, Lieutenant Pava have to do with _anything_ , Luke?” Rey had suddenly demanded. Luke, smiling his most enigmatic smile, had merely waved dismissively, and turned the discussion to their form—Rey’s had been, as usual, practically perfect. Finn’s, as usual, had needed some work.)

 

Sighing, Poe stopped his painting and turned to face Finn, a wistful smile on his face as he shuffled to the right to lean against a dry section of Black 1’s nose. He carefully crossed his arms over his chest, still holding the detail-brush. “God, I haven’t thought about that in years . . . one of the best and worst memories of my childhood. The awful itching and burning . . . and my Dad singing to me and keeping me company through every minute of it.”

 

Finn felt a rare pang . . . a note of grief for the parents he’d barely known and would never remember. “He has a nice singing voice, like you, your dad?”

 

Poe snorted. “Oh, Maker, _no_! Pops’s got a _sergeant’s_ voice: hoarse and raw and raspy from shouting orders on and off the battlefield. When he sings . . . it ain’t pretty. But I’ll allow it’s kinda comforting when you’re sick and miserable.”

 

Finn chuckled. “I guess that means you got your voice from your mom, huh?”

 

“I guess so . . . I mean, she used to sing me to sleep, too, sometimes. And sing while she was working on her X-wing,” Poe added wryly, gesturing up at Black 1. Then his smile faltered and he looked up at the sky, blinking fast and frequently. “But I don’t . . . I don’t really remember what she sounded like, singing. Pops has vid-chips with her laughing and talking . . . but none with her singing.”

 

Poe shrugged, cavalier and hapless, and in the way he only got when talk turned to the late, great Shara Bey. Finn exchanged a glance with BB-8. The little droid made a sad blooping noise that was more disappointed moan than an actual word in binary.

 

“I’ll bet she had a nice, soothing voice . . . smooth and wonderful like yours,” Finn said softly, struggling to put into words the feeling Poe’s singing and Poe’s _voice_ —the feeling _Poe_ —fostered within him. “The sort of voice that makes people’s hearts ache with a feeling so sweet and perfect, that it kinda _breaks_ their hearts for everything they’ve ever loved or lost . . . or maybe never had to begin with.”

 

Finn fell silent, frustrated with his inability to say what he felt, at least about Poe’s voice, if not the rest of him. “I dunno. Your voice makes me miss my home and . . . I’ve never really _had_ a home to miss. But then, when you smile at me . . . I kinda feel like I _do_ , now, anyway, so . . . that’s not so bad.” Huffing, he looked up at Poe, an apology on his lips for the way he’d been rambling—only to find Poe staring back at him with wide eyes in which several emotions shone . . . namely surprise and wonder.

 

“I . . . _wow_ , Finn,” he said quietly, blinking fast again, but smiling a little, still surprised and wondering. Incredulous. “No one’s ever . . . I mean, _yeah_ , sometimes people compliment my singing—tell me my voice is good—but . . . no one’s ever said anything like _that_ about it. No one’s ever. . . .”

 

“Ever what?” Finn asked breathlessly as Poe looked down at the floor of the hangar and scuffed the oil-stained surface with the toe of his boot.

 

“No one’s, ah . . . no one’s ever made me begin to _believe it_ , ‘til just now,” Poe mumbled, so red, Finn could see it despite the pale wash of the moonlight silvering everything it touched, including Poe.

 

“You _should_ believe your voice is good. Because it _is_. It’s . . . _beautiful_. Perfect. One of my favorite things in the entire galaxy.”

 

Poe chuckled, now, cutting a doubtful glance Finn’s way. “Yeah, yeah. Now, you’re just buttering me up.”

 

“To what end?” Finn retorted, laughing. Next to him, BB-8 had stopped his worried, anxious spinning and was watching Poe and Finn as if they were a vatha-ball match, his dome turning from one man to the other.

 

Poe grinned, giving Finn an arch once-over that began and ended with Finn’s eyes. “I can think of a few reasons.”

 

Blushing for reasons he didn’t fully understand, Finn chewed his bottom lip before he reinforced his prior statement: “I meant what I said, Poe. Your voice is my _favorite_ voice and you’re . . . my favorite _person_.”

 

“In the entire galaxy?” Poe teased lightly. Finn, defensive and embarrassed, shrugged.

 

“Yes,” he nonetheless admitted without subterfuge or deflection.

 

“Then you need to see more of the galaxy, kid,” Poe said sarcastically, but not exactly unkindly. Finn scowled.

 

“Don’t call me ‘kid.’”

 

Poe snorted again. “That’s what you are.”

 

“I haven’t been a kid since I was taken by the First Order,” Finn said stiffly and Poe blinked, then winced.

 

“I—sorry. I just . . . sometimes I forget that you didn’t have a . . . normal childhood. Or any childhood, at all, really.” Poe’s voice was heavy, and guilty-sounding, once again. “I’m not trying to be condescending, or. . . .”

 

“An asshole?” Finn sighed and smiled a little—more of a grimace than an expression of mirth. “I know. But sometimes you _are_ , whether you mean to be or not.”

 

Poe winced again, but didn’t deny or gainsay Finn’s observation. “Yeah. You’re not wrong, there,” he finally agreed, laughing a bit self-deprecatingly. “‘M I still your favorite person in the galaxy?”

 

Finn found himself grinning. “Of course. Just because you make me mad and frustrated, sometimes, doesn’t mean you stop being my favorite. It just means that you’re human. And I hear tell those come with flaws.”

 

Poe’s chagrin-face turned into a slow, almost unwilling smile. “Sometimes, they do. And some come with more than others.”

 

“True . . . but the more flaws, the more there is to love.”

 

“Ha! That sounds like something _Luke’d_ say!” Poe snickered and Finn blushed, but kept on grinning.

 

“He _did_ say it, actually.”

 

“Of course.” Poe shook his head. “So . . . if I’m your _favorite_ person, what does that make _Rey_?”

 

“My best friend. Or, as Jess puts it: my sister from another mister.”

 

Poe burst out guffawing and Finn, bemused, looked over at a BB-8 who was beeping for _Jacket-Thief’s_ attention.

 

“What about me? What am I?” the spheroid astromech asked, all but bouncing, and definitely spinning.

 

“You’re a pain in the after-burners, that’s what,” Poe muttered, still laughing a little. Finn coughed to cover a chuckle, then put his hand on BB-8’s dome.

 

“You’re my favorite _droid_ in the entire galaxy, BB-8, and the best astromech, too.”

 

BB-8 made another sound that wasn’t a word, even in binary, but a weird, whistling little warble, and spun around: dome in one direction, body in another, all his little lights flashing.

 

“Of _course_ , I am your favorite droid! And I _am_ the best astromech in the galaxy! Friend Poe, did you hear that?”

 

“Yep. I heard it, Bee,” Poe said sanguinely, then added. “Thanks a lot, Finn, he’s gonna be insufferable for at least the next month, now.”

 

Finn chuckled again, patting BB-8’s dome fondly. “Well, if any droid’s earned it. . . .”

 

“I have earned many accolades and much praise,” BB-8 concurred chirpily, not noticing the glance Finn and Poe shared.

 

“ _Someone’s_ got a swelled dome,” Poe drawled, but he sounded amused before he sighed. He seemed, on the whole, in better spirits than he had for the past week. And, certainly, better than he had since Finn had arrived at the hangar.

 

And Finn was just congratulating himself on a job well done, when Poe’s face fell, his smile disappearing like the galaxy’s worst magic trick.

 

“Poe?” he asked uncertainly. The smile Poe turned on him was mirthless, once more, and it didn’t reach his dark eyes, which were suddenly shinier than they had been. “Is . . . what’s wrong?”

 

Shaking his head once, tersely, Poe turned back to Black 1, but didn’t resume painting. Finn went on haltingly. “You’ve been acting . . . either angry or distant for the past week . . . and that’s not like you. Something’s going on . . . and I want you to know that—you can talk to me about it.”

 

No response.

 

“Maybe that’d help, you know? And even if you don’t want to talk about it, I’m still here if you need me. I just—” Finn heaved a sigh and stood. “I want to help in any way I can. Whatever way you need.”

 

Poe’s shoulders sagged, but he continued staring at Black 1’s hull. “You’re _my_ favorite person, too, y’know? From eyes to smile, voice to laugh—Maker’s bones, but I _love_ makin’ you laugh, Finn!—and heart and soul.” He looked down, his free hand coming up to rest on a now-dry spot whereon his callsign was emblazoned. “You’ve got so much _heart_ , Finn . . . so open and kind and giving and . . . _good_. And you have the purest, noblest soul I’ve ever encountered.”

 

Finn flushed. “I’m an ex-stormtrooper.”

 

“Doesn’t change anything. In fact, the contrast just makes it truer.” Poe looked back at Finn, who took a few steps closer. “Mom woulda _loved_ you. And _Dad_. . . .”

 

“I look forward to meeting him, someday,” Finn said hopefully, swallowing reflexively around a sudden lump in his throat. “It was your stories about him that made me want to become a Pathfinder. The legendary Kes Dameron is my . . . inspiration.”

 

“Not your hero?” Poe teased again, but more tired and perfunctory than anything.

 

“Nah. My _hero_ is . . . a different Dameron.”

 

This won a sad smile from Poe and a squaring of slumped shoulders. “Let’s hope . . . let’s hope you get the chance to meet a _real_ hero, Finn. My Dad’s, uh . . . he hasn’t returned my messages home for the past month.” Off Finn’s shocked, horrified gape, Poe’s sad smile widened and turned bitter. “Because things’re kinda . . . red-alert-ish for us with the First Order being close to back to their old strength, General Organa won’t let me take an unmarked ship to Yavin to see if my Dad’s. . . .”

 

“Maker-alive, Poe!” Finn finally choked out a minute later, closing the distance between them to place his hand on Poe’s shoulder. The other man sagged again, his head hanging a bit. “Have you tried . . . contacting a neighbor to go check on him, or—”

 

Poe shook his head. “The General ordered me not to for security reasons. Can’t have anyone tracing messages back here, can we?”

 

Finn was still horrified. “What . . . is it possible that maybe there’s been some sort of . . . glitch or accident that’s making things look . . . suspicious?”

 

“Anything’s _possible_. But I sent three messages to Dad’s personal terminal almost five weeks ago. All three were bounced back to me, unread. Which means that terminal’s been deactivated, or wiped and destroyed—neither of which my father would do without giving me another way to contact him. Not unless he had to wipe and destroy his terminal in a hurry to keep someone from getting information out of it. Information about his notorious son’s whereabouts,” Poe gritted out, bitter and angry, but only with himself. Finn squeezed his shoulder and moved closer, glancing around. They were still alone, of course, but for a perfectly-still BB-8, who was watching from next to the crate on which Finn had been sitting.

 

“Do you think the First Order or sympathizers have him?” Finn asked. It was the toughest question he’d ever had to utter. But Poe surprised him by laughing, a harsh, dismissive bark.

 

“I doubt they’d have caught him off-guard, Dad being how he is. So, if he had enough warning to destroy his terminal, he had enough to, likely, to get out before those assholes got in or surrounded him.” The older man looked up at Finn. “He got away, I’m betting. And he’s probably at a safe-house—or still on the run, looking for a way to let me know he’s alright.”

 

Finn frowned but nodded. “True. He’s a Pathfinder. And if any Pathfinder could find his way to safety, it’d be Kes Dameron. But that doesn’t mean we should cool our heels and play the waiting game while he does,” he said, grim and thoughtful. “He might need help and we have to figure out a way to not only find him before the First Order does, but get him to real safety, either here or somewhere he can disappear.”

 

Poe was shaking his head once more. “I’m with ya, Finn, but the general—”

 

“Is thinking like a general. Which is as it should be,” Finn finished quietly. “She’s doing what she feels is necessary to protect what she cares about. And we . . . have every right to do the same.”

 

“Even if it puts the entire Resistance in harm’s way?” Poe demanded, tears and hope shining in his eyes, as if he wanted to believe, but didn’t dare to. “You think the general would let us get that far?”

 

“ _Let us_? No,” Finn answered. “But it’s like Luke says: It’s easier to ask forgiveness than permission.”

 

“I’ll remember that if and when we’re court-martialed and put in front of a firing squad.” Poe rolled his eyes, but the tears were gone, leaving only hope . . . and a burgeoning cunning. “Getting off Fan’Ost 6 is gonna be a problem.”

 

“One you can’t solve?”

 

Another snort. “If it involves flying, I can solve the problem. It’s finding Dad once I’m off-world that’s gonna be an issue . . . tracking him down wherever he is.”

 

“Mm. Sounds like you need a Pathfinder to find a Pathfinder.”

 

“Yeah. That’s probably—” Poe suddenly fell silent as he understood the import of Finn’s prior statement. “You’d . . . you’d come _with_ me? For real? You'd risk your life and the safety of the Resistance to help me find my dad, only to return here to be court-martialed if we succeed, or be tortured and executed by the First Order if we don’t?”

 

“Sounds like a good time, to me.”

 

“Finn. . . .” Poe huffed another unwilling laugh. “There’re _real_ _consequences_ for stickin’ by me and goin’ through with this.”

 

Finn gestured at himself. “Hey: Guy who turned traitor from the First Order a year ago . . . I think I understand something about the consequences of not following orders that don’t sit well. Even though this is pretty different—the Resistance isn’t evil and . . . well, I would prefer _not_ to disobey the General’s orders—the General, herself, and Luke are always telling me and Rey to follow our hearts and do what’s right. So even if we can never come back to the Resistance after we find your Dad . . . even if we die in the process . . . _you_ can’t _not_ follow your heart and _I_ can’t not follow _mine_. Can’t let you follow where your heart leads _alone_. My heart is . . . practically plasma-welded to you. And the _rest_ of me is partial to you, too, Dameron.” Giving Poe’s shoulder another squeeze and scanning the other man’s tired, but hopeful expression Finn nodded, his mind settling, his gut not churning, as he accepted this turn his life was taking. Whatever else he wanted, he _never_ wanted Poe to be alone during a time like this. Or _ever_. “Looks like ya got some company, buddy.”

 

“Is ‘at so?” Poe murmured, smiling a little, meeting Finn’s gaze, his own surprised and wondering, once more, as well as . . . warm and fond. And something else Finn had seen in Poe’s gaze before—had _been_ _seeing_ more and more often, starting with the afternoon he woke from his coma, to a haggard, drawn pilot sitting by his bedside, holding his hand and chafing it—but was still unable to read.

 

“Th-that’s _so_ so, Poe.” Finn’s voice cracked slightly, up in to a higher register. And his smile was nervous and unsure, but Poe’s was relaxed and confident. “Road-trip! Outer Rim, ahoy!”

 

“Jackass.” Poe’s smile deepened into a grin. There was a small clatter as Poe’s paintbrush hit the floor of the hangar, then Poe’s rough, chilled hands were cupping Finn’s face, his thumbs stroking Finn’s cheeks gently as he leaned in until . . . until their foreheads touched and their noses brushed. “I love you . . . you know that, right?”

 

Finn drew in a startled breath and Poe chuckled, low and a tad hoarse.

 

“I mean, since I saw you and Bee crossing that tarmac on D’Qar, both alive when by all rights you shouldn’t have been, I’ve been fallin’ for ya, kiddo. Fast and hard and there’s no end in sight. I love ya. Feels like I always have. I kinda think I always will.”

 

Finn’s mouth worked soundlessly for nearly a minute before word-like noises began to emerge. “But . . . me? Love? You?” he blurted, mostly out of order, like that weird little green Jedi in that movie trilogy about Luke Skywalker Jess was always watching.

 

“Good question,” Poe noted, voice gone teasing once more. Finn blushed and smiled wryly. “Do you love me back, Finn? I, uh . . . you don’t have to say it if you don’t feel it yet. And it’s okay if you _never_ feel it, I just—”

 

“Luke and Rey think I’m in love with you.”

 

Poe leaned back a little, to look Finn in the eyes again. “And what do _you_ think?”

 

“I think . . . Luke and Rey are the two wisest people I know. And really observant.” Finn was the one to snort, this time. “And if wanting to kiss you and touch you, hug you and just _be_ with you—if thinking you’re the most wonderful, beautiful, amazing, funny, sweet, smart, perfect being in the galaxy and never wanting to be further away from you than exactly the distance we are, now—if all that means I’m in love with you, Poe Dameron, then . . . I’ve been in love with you since I woke up in the med-bay and looked into your eyes. It was like the sun rose just for me, to see you smile at me like I was . . . something you’d always wanted. And every time you smile at me, I feel like it’s that moment happening all over again.”

 

For a few moments, all Poe did was blink at Finn, clearly shocked by a declaration that even Finn hadn’t expected, despite having said it. The Poe was grinning— _smiling_ . . . that sunrise-smile—and Finn was too busy falling in love all over again to notice how embarrassed he felt by his little speech.

 

“Y’know . . . when I imagined our first kiss,” Poe began softly, his breath warm and redolent of caf on Finn’s face. “I didn’t imagine it’d be like _this_. I mean, I imagined the romantic, starry-moonlit sky, but there was a picnic blanket and a mostly-finished bottle of Corellian wine . . . no public hangar, no Black 1, no Bee spinning in circles and flashing his lights like tonight was a Naboo coronation party.” Laughing a little, Poe sighed. “But in the end, the important bit is you, with me. And I guess, as long as there’s that, our first kiss’ll be A-number-one.”

 

“Y-you . . . you’ve thought about us k-kissing?” Finn’s eyes felt so wide-open, he was sure they’d fall out of their sockets.

 

Poe laughed again. “All the time. Are you surprised?”

 

“Um . . . yeah . . . I, uh . . . I thought I was the only one.”

 

“Nope,” Poe said, sounding a bit relieved and a lot smug. “I’ve been wantin’ to kiss you since the moment you took off that stormtrooper helmet. I _daydream_ about the way it’ll feel to kiss you. The way it’ll taste. The sounds you’ll make . . . _Maker_ , Finn. . . .”

 

Then, with a moan, Poe’s lips were pressing Finn’s softly, but firmly. Chastely, but passionately. Finn’s knees instantly went weak at the start of a sweet, tingling burn that originated in his lips and almost immediately spread throughout his body. He gasped a little as every hair on his body stood on end, and when he did, Poe surged into the kiss and Finn’s mouth with a hungry, possessive sound, his tongue stroking along Finn’s, teasing and ticklish, before it began to explore and map his mouth.

 

Humming happily, Poe’s hands dropped to Finn’s chest, then down to his hips, where they grasped gently, then less so, pulling Finn’s body closer. More than willing to oblige, Finn moved in until their bodies were flush against each other, and one of Poe’s hands had slid around to Finn’s backside, gripping and kneading urgently.

 

Uncertain what to do with his own hands, Finn placed them on Poe’s chest tentatively, the other man’s steady, strong, elevated heartbeat thudding under his palms as Poe patiently taught him, through example, how to kiss.

 

When Finn felt as if he’d learned enough to improvise and give as good as he got, he did so, licking into Poe’s mouth slowly and tentatively: a hesitant entreaty to be allowed in. Poe’s response was another happy hum. Finn took that as leave and did some exploring and mapping of his own.

 

By the time the kiss ended, Poe had taken control of it again, and reversed their positions smoothly at some point, pressing Finn up against a hopefully dry section of Black 1’s hull. Both his hands were on Finn’s behind and he was grinding his groin into Finn’s, sweet and slow. They were both more than a little hard.

 

“Wow. . . .” Poe panted breathlessly, leaning his forehead against Finn’s again. “That was _way_ better than I imagined!”

 

“Yeah,” Finn agreed, equally breathless and quite dazed. “I never . . . never kissed anyone before. I used to wonder what all the fuss was about. Not anymore!”

 

Poe leaned back, shocked and wide-eyed once more. “You . . . never? _I’m_ your first?” Off Finn’s shy nod, Poe’s face turned somber and solemn. “Romance isn’t big on the First Order’s agenda, huh?”

 

“Uh . . . decidedly not,” Finn chuckled, blushing. “I mean, we’re encouraged to . . . um . . . do stuff with each other. As stress-relief and to get it out of our system—kinda like how we had to drink nutrient shakes, every once in a while, or get immunizations. Sometimes, we had to have sex. It’s a biological imperative and need, and the First Order was fine with us exploring it as long as we . . . didn’t form attachments.”

 

Poe blinked. “So . . . you’ve had sex . . . but you’ve never been _kissed_? Never had a boyfriend or girlfriend? Or even just someone you wanted to make out with until your lips fell off?”

 

Shaking his head, Finn shrugged. “Nope. Well . . . sometimes, I used to wish that Slip would kiss me while we, um, did stuff. But he never did. We just took care of our needs efficiently and went back to our duties.”

 

“Wow,” Poe said sadly, leaning in to kiss Finn again—this time on the tip of his nose and the spot between his eyebrows. “I’ve _never_ wanted a group of people as thoroughly _dead_ as I want the First Order.”

 

Finn wrapped his arms around Poe’s neck, holding on tight as Poe’s arms wrapped around his waist.

 

“We’ll go as slow as you want, okay, sweetheart?” Poe whispered. “Whatever you want.”

 

Finn smiled, still feeling dazed and ecstatic and _perfect_. “ _Whatever I want_ . . . okay. But, um, not _too_ slow, I hope.”

 

Grinning, Poe stole another kiss, brief, but a sizzler, one that left him pinning a gasping, groaning Finn to Black 1, his hips driving Finn’s back against the hull.

 

“Maker, you’re _beautiful_ ,” Poe sighed, nipping love-bites into Finn’s neck. The younger man made a high, desperate sound in his throat as his body broke out in prickly-heat and shivery tingles. “ _So_ fuckin’ beautiful, baby.”

 

“Poe. . . .” Finn breathed, helpless and needy and yearning. “ _Please_.”

 

Chuckling, Poe ground against Finn one more time before, with a final nuzzle, stepping back out of Finn’s arms. He put about a foot of unwelcome space between their bodies, but his hot-eyed gaze kept the fire in Finn’s body burning.

 

“Don’t stop,” he moaned, soft and pleading. Poe’s eyes flashed and he licked his kiss-swollen lips, stepping close to Finn again, his hands finding Finn’s hips as if they’d been doing so for years.

 

“Believe me, baby, I don’t _wanna_ stop,” he murmured, his eyes darting to Finn’s mouth before locking onto his eyes. “I _never_ wanna stop kissing you and touching you. But . . . there’re other matters we gotta see to before we make love in the pounding surf, to the tender, swelling strains of violins.”

 

 _Pounding surf? Violins?_ Finn wondered. Then, blinking, he was recalled to the “matters” they’d been discussing before getting so delightfully derailed.

 

“Right. Your dad.”

 

“Yeah,” Poe said with a pained wince and sigh. “I gotta figure out how we’re gonna get off-planet without getting busted. Not an _impossible_ task, but definitely a stumper.”

 

“Maybe. But we’ll figure it out,” Finn promised, nuzzling Poe’s nose. The other man made a soft, yearning sound.

 

“ _We_ ,” he whispered. “I like the sound of that.”

 

“We make a great team,” Finn acknowledged, gone grim and determined, despite the way his heart started beating faster and the way he wanted to drag Poe back to his quarters and . . . take care of some needs. With the ease of long practice, he compartmentalized his wants and desires, and put them away to focus on the problem that lay before them: Kes Dameron, and the finding thereof.

 

Poe swallowed audibly, and when he spoke, his voice was raw and breaking. “You’re . . . you’re really _with_ me, Finn?”

 

Finn Solo, the Force-Sensitive, Resistance Pathfinder, leaned his forehead against Commander Poe Dameron’s again, his hands settling on the pilot’s shoulders. He took a deep breath and nodded. “ _All the way_ , Poe . . . you get us off-planet and to Yavin 4, and _I’ll_ do the rest.”

 

TBC


	3. I Was Young When I Left Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The beginning of Poe and Finn’s search for Kes Dameron wasn’t difficult, aside from getting off the Resistance Base. After that, it was still lacking in challenges, immediate dangers, and close calls. Their first port-of-call was a familiar one. With a familiar friend, _all-too-familiar_ frustrations, and maybe—just maybe—a solid lead. They go largely unnoticed, surprisingly. At least, until an unexpected party starts . . . _noticing_ them. After that, the noticing-trend continues.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes/Warnings: Post-TFA AU, but canon-compliant up to the end of TFA. Some smut. (I haven’t seen _The Last Jedi_ , yet, though I—and a LOT of others, I’m guessing—have been so kindly spoiled for THE MAJOR spoiler (and a couple smaller ones) of the film by someone on Tumblr whom I _no longer_ follow. I _do not_ , however, take that spoiler-event into account for the purposes of this chapter or the rest of this fic.)

 

**3\. I Was Young When I Left Home**

 

Poe, Finn, and Bee finally touched down on Takodana halfway between midnight and sun-up, one morning.

 

On the sprawling property that belonged to Maz Kanata, there were many ships. _Their_ inconspicuous ship, a small, converted junker-shuttle that was cozy—even with just three, one of whom was a small droid—if viewed in a certain generous light, had become confining after weeks spent mostly shipboard.

 

Their journey to Takodana had been circuitous and long, to understate the matter. Of necessity. And that time taken—despite Poe’s protests that speed was more important than secrecy—had paid off in not having to dodge any sort of enemies, patrols, or even the few pirates who’d be desperate enough to come after such a tiny, junky, elderly ship.

 

Poe was, despite his edgy impatience and snappy-snarky restlessness, glad that he had not only a Pathfinder with him, but a Force-sensitive one with _amazing_ instincts.

 

And, more importantly, he had _Finn Solo_ . . . the man he loved fiercely and increasingly, and probably had at first sight.

 

When Finn’s instinct and deepening connection to— _understanding of_ —the Force and its ways, said _run_ , Poe took them off with all haste, happily. And when Finn said _hide_ . . . Poe also did that. Grumbling and tense, because, _of course, he was . . . his father was out there, on the run, alone_. But Poe nonetheless did as Finn advised. For, when all was said and done, he’d _never_ had cause to think he wasn’t doing the rightest and safest thing for them all by listening to Finn. Even now, Poe recognized that a little time lost with a lot of safety gained was better than being chased around the galaxy by the First Order forever. And all because Poe couldn’t contain his anxiety and fear, rage and impatience.

 

The weeks of close quarters were incredibly wearing, however. To the point that even Finn—sweet, easy-going Finn—was getting frayed around the edges. He and Poe were always either too deep in each other’s orbit, or not deep enough. By unspoken agreement, the not-deep-enough moments were a stop-gap to keep the too-deep from moments from also going _too-far_.

 

Poe’s romantic streak was as country mile-wide as his libido, and though it was leavened with a certain sardonic self-awareness, even the most closeted romantic would agree that the current mission was neither the time or place for their first time together.

 

Not that, agreement and awareness aside, they didn’t come fairly close several times . . . per day.

 

The atmosphere of the ship was tense, expectant, wary, bored, riled, and a million other things in such profusion, that Bee finally went into rest-mode for the last leg of the journey to Takodana, leaving Poe and Finn in a silence that was only broken for absolute necessities . . . and by the occasional periods of moans, murmurs, rustling of fabric, and the impacts of skin-on-skin.

 

And, so it was, too, for the entire interminable wait lasting from touch-down dirt-side, to just before sunrise.

 

Even with the on-going rebuilding and restoration of Maz’s castle, as ever, the local hub was open ‘round the clock. But Poe knew, just as Finn did, that the slowest time of any pub and music venue was going to be just after the late drinkers staggered off and just before the early drinkers stumbled in.

 

The whole point to waiting for that brief, but important span was lowering the likelihood of them being noted or recognized by unfriendly eyes, and ratted out.

 

As had been the case for over a fortnight, when Poe and Finn were left with too much time and not enough distraction, they shortly found themselves on Finn’s narrow bunk—right below Poe’s—wrestling with clothing that was only impossibly complicated in the space allotted and the situation faced.

 

Poe was pinning Finn’s body, grinding down against the other man hard and slow, while Finn writhed and moaned and clutched at him with the sort of need and reverence Poe’d never received from another lover—would-be, or had-been—nor felt for anyone, in turn. Not until Finn, and probably never for anyone else.

 

It was as maddening as it was blissful, knowing that it couldn’t—wouldn’t— _shouldn’t_ —go any further than hasty handjobs and intense dry-humping. And perhaps shouldn’t have gone _that_ far, before their mission was successful.

 

 _Shoulda, coulda, woulda, did it,_ Poe thought with cavalier grimness as he shifted and shimmied against his almost-lover. Finn gasped, high and breathless, as Poe marked his throat, neck, and one bared shoulder with biting kisses that danced the line between purposeful-playful, to purposeful-possessive.

 

“ _Poe, please_ ,” Finn whisper-hissed, as Poe’s kissing and licking focused on his left nipple with tender tortuousness. His right hand was clamped down on Poe’s shoulder hard, his left on Poe’s head, fingers twined in his curls, clenching and releasing as he shuddered and bucked up under Poe’s body: demanding and submissive simultaneously.

 

“ _Hmmm, baby_ ,” Poe murmured, his voice rough and husking with hunger and desire that’d been building for nearly a year, but exponentially in the three weeks and four days since leaving the Base. He teased and traced Finn’s nipple with his tongue, before once more applying his teeth.

 

It wasn’t long before he was restraining Finn’s wild hips with his hands and with his own aggressive hips and dominant thrusts. Coming together, mostly-clothed, was—after weeks of travel, only some of it without BB-8 randomly taking interest, and providing suggestions and commentary—was nothing new or special . . . except that it was. It always would be, with Finn, Poe supposed, pressing his lips and face to the spot just above Finn’s strong heartbeat. It _always would be_ , and Poe was infinitely on-board with that. He needed to come, and come _with Finn_ , so, so _badly_ —

 

“Poe . . . _oh, Poe_. . . .”

 

“ _So_ good for me, baby . . . love you so fucking much!”

 

“I now empathize completely with R4’s continuing complaints about her pilot. Have you not grown bored with sexual activity _yet_ , Friend Poe and Jacket-Thief?”

 

“Timing of the fucking gods, Bee,” Poe muttered after several moments of unhappy startlement. Underneath him, Finn’s body—so strong and agile, and thrumming in a way Poe was already addicted to—went still. Then he groaned so pathetically, Poe realized and was flattered by the fact that it was actually a whimper.

 

He sat up a bit, shifting so that he was looking down into Finn’s face. His full lips were kiss-swollen and insanely tempting, so Poe didn’t resist the temptation. Finn hummed grumpily—then less grumpily—as Poe stole kiss after kiss, until those perfect lips were curved in a perfect smile.

 

“Love you, sweetheart,” Poe murmured into quite a few more kisses. Finn accepted them and returned them sweetly, innocently, but with hints and promises of wantonness. Of a desire that still simmered and roared below layers of control and care and _consideration_ for Poe.

 

Poe . . . who was cursing his own idiot romantic-streak for keeping him on the ragged edge of sanity. Keeping him _honorable,_ when every moment of his recent existence had become either worrying about his father, or fighting not to bend Finn over the control console and just _take_ all the light and beauty and sweetness that was on offer. Fighting not to immerse himself in Finn, and seek out the core of wonder, warmth, and love, which the Force had been kind enough to create and keep relatively safe _just for Poe_. . . .

 

Finn deserved better. Better than _Poe-Maker-damned-Dameron_ could or would ever be able to give him . . . but certainly better than a quickie in the cockpit of a junker.

 

Whatever hearts and flowers lurked in Poe’s awkward, impulsive soul, Finn would get all of it. As much as Poe could give him. Not just because he deserved that and so much more, but because . . . Poe _wanted_ to give Finn that.

 

And so much more.

 

“Love you, too, Flyboy,” Finn said, soft as a sigh, blinking up at Poe and smiling. Poe returned that smile with a crooked-wicked grin of his own and nuzzled Finn’s nose.

 

“Will you still love me after I’ve had Bee wiped and turned into a fancy hood-ornament?”

 

Finn snorted and laughed, even as Bee swore blisteringly and called Poe names that he had to have learned from Rey and/or R2D2.

 

“If possible, I’ll probably love you even more,” Finn mused, his dark, tender gaze bright and nearly dazed with awe. That look never made Poe fewer than ten thousand parsecs tall . . . and frequently made him feel at least one hundred thousand parsecs taller, still.

 

Poe leaned his forehead down against Finn’s. “ _Maker_ , baby . . . when this’s all over. . . .”

 

As Poe trailed off, Finn ran hot, but controlled hands up the thighs straddling his own. “You’ve got yourself a date, Commander Dameron. And I’m gonna hold you to that ellipsis, too.”

 

“Go right ahead, gorgeous.” Poe nipped at Finn’s lips, then soothed them with a gentle kiss. “I’ll make each ellipsis—uhhh, _ellipsi_?—worth your while. And then some, Corporal Solo.”

 

“An ellipsis is an often-overused form of punctuation, Friend Poe. Do you not realize this?”

 

Poe laughed into a final kiss before reluctantly, regretfully, sitting up and glancing over at Bee, who’d rolled closer than his charging-stand near the small ‘fresher. His dome was rapidly turning back and forth between Poe’s smirking, flushed-olive face and Finn’s smiling, smoky-sepia one.

 

“And don’t think I’m gonna put you on Black 1, either, when I wipe ya, Bee. I’m gonna bolt you to the slowest, jankiest, _ground-transport_ I can find. One covered in mud and small children,” Poe promised, mustering up a convincing glower for his astromech.

 

That was worth a droid-y sort of gasp, offended and flustered—if there was one thing Bee disapproved of more than mud, it was small children—then Bee fled, blorping and _waaah_ ing into the cockpit. Only to reemerge right after, then circle the living-area with dramatic bleeps and blips that weren’t words even in Binary.

 

For a minute, Poe and Finn just watched the ham-y droid— _that_ he got from C3P0, beyond a doubt—chew the minimal scenery of the cramped living-area.

 

“We’re horrible people,” Finn concluded, bemused and amused. Poe chuckled, sitting back on his heels and adjusting his trousers to give himself at least a little relief from friction.

 

And it was _very little relief_ , as those things went. But at least Poe was being proactive, and that was never _not_ a good thing.

 

“Yep.” He winked at Finn, who was levering himself up on his elbow, his wistful eyes lingering on Poe at groin-level. But he quickly met Poe’s gaze with a heated, promising, ravenous . . . _sweetly patient_ one of his own. Poe’s heart sighed, and his grin went goofy. Not that he cared. “ _Real_ horrible. But _especially you_ , handsome. Damn . . . alright, enough torturing each other mercilessly. Let’s go see a lady about a lead, before Bee blows a gasket and _I_ blow . . . um, a couple things.”

 

#

 

Though the sorts of pirates and thieves who frequented _Mid-Rim_ establishments were likely to be above wasting effort to steal _their_ junker, Poe and Finn agreed that it was best not to take chances.

 

Bee, in a sullen and somewhat self-pitying mood, was assigned guard-duty, both to keep an eye on the junker and to keep him from drawing unneeded attention with his chirpy-bright curiosity and his now _well-known_ model-type.

 

Thus, as the sun began to peek above the canopy of the forest-arm between their landing-site and the half-built castle, Poe and Finn exited their junker, each carrying concealed pistols—and, in Finn’s case, the lightsaber that was _far_ too memorable to be used unless they found themselves already made and engaged in a firefight—at their hips. And also in an inner jacket ( _not_ the infamous one that Poe had gifted him) pocket for Finn’s saber.

 

They made their way toward what might have been one of Kes Dameron’s stopovers since fleeing Yavin 4 . . . though probably not his last. In fact, Kes being the canny, cunning survivor he was, he was _at least_ a dozen stopovers and systems away from Takodana, by now.

 

But, to avoid detention and capture, Poe and Finn couldn’t have gotten there any faster than they had. And even so, they’d been less cautious than Finn had wanted.

 

Luck had been on their side heavily, up to this point. Hopefully, it’d continue to stick around.

 

 _Hope_. . . .

 

Poe would be the first to admit that if they had _any hope_ of picking up Kes’ trail before it went cold, well . . . Maz Kanata and her network of contacts and informants was surely it.

 

#

 

Maz welcomed them effusively, with a big smile, open arms, and bright, knowing-cautioning eyes.

 

She also greeted them using fake names—Poe was _Massem_ and Finn was _Rylen_ —and quickly seated them in a spot that was inconspicuously conspicuous: not far from the bar and within easy sight of the doors. There were few of last night’s stragglers and fewer still of this morning’s early-birds. None of them seemed to be paying undue attention to Poe or Finn. But looks were often deceiving.

 

 _Especially at Maz’s_ , Poe reminded himself as he aimed his gaze squarely at his own table and companions for a little while. Because the only thing that drew more attention than outright staring, even in a place like Maz’s, was pretending to not notice anything at all.

 

Maz saw them fed enough breakfast to make even a glutton groan and demur. She, too, ate what seemed like half her weight in juppa melon-slices, stewed lentils, and freshly-made flatbread. As they ate, she rambled at them with few pauses, and certainly none long enough for them to come to the point of their visit. She shared news and gossip about mutual friends, acquaintances, and enemies, that Poe was pretty sure were entirely made up.

 

 _He_ didn’t recognize any of the names she mentioned, anyway. Neither, he sensed, did Finn, somewhere beneath his agreeable-relaxed game-face.

 

Not long after breakfast was decimated, and Poe was barely able to breathe, let alone think, speak, move, or stand, Maz sighed, and brightened as if just recalling something she’d forgotten.

 

“Don’t think I’ve forgotten what today is! You’re just lucky I can give you two lovebirds the same room as last time, and the time before _that_ , too!” she enthused, sly and indulgent in a grandmotherly way that even Poe bought for as long as it took him to catch up with what Maz had actually said.

 

“Ahhh,” he temporized, his determination and impatience to get to whether or not she had any useful intel on his father sidetracked _yet again_. He sighed and glanced at Finn, who was smiling at Maz like a man who hadn’t nearly been done-in by a meal, and who was also keeping up with _whatever_ the hell was going on.

 

“Of course, you didn’t forget, Maz. You’ve got that scary-long memory for customers, and Massem and I are creatures of habit, anyway,” Finn said with affable dismissiveness, settling his hand fondly—warningly—on Poe’s and squeezing lightly.

 

Making a quantum leap, Poe went cold as he suddenly understood: Maz’s place was likely bugged—the main bar and ground floor, if nowhere else. Even saying his father’s first name aloud might be risking the quick and heavy response of the First Order.

 

Poe got with the program in a hurry and bent a toothy, fake-feeling smile on Finn, then on Maz. “Ah, yeah, you know _us_ ,” he added lamely, and Maz rolled her googly-magnified eyes, then adjusted her goggles, so said eyes were even _more_ googly.

 

“Uh-huh.” It was more of a comment on Poe’s unusually shitty attempt at playing it cool, than a response to what he’d said. She turned that huge gaze to Finn. “He forgot again, I take it,” she noted crisply. Finn snorted.

 

“Third year, running. He _always_ forgets. But . . . _for better or worse_ , right? Besides, divorce proceedings require too much overpriced paperwork,” he replied, laughing with affectionate humor that Poe knew was real, though used in service of something that wasn’t. Well, wasn’t real _yet_ , anyway.

 

And when this mission was over, assuming they hadn’t wound up in a New Republic prison—or in front of a New Republic firing squad—Poe was going to do his damnedest to give Finn _another_ forever-name.

 

“Well, even though he clearly deserves no such reward, your room is ready and waiting. Four days and four nights of Takodana’s best hospitality!” Maz said, standing and gesturing expansively. This time, Poe was the one to snort. Then, after Finn squeezed his hand, joined his erstwhile husband in a labored, overfull attempt at standing. Once they were upright, Finn leaning into Poe and Poe holding Finn close like a contented and happily wedded man, Maz blinked up at them and let her hairless brows lift slightly, but pointedly.

 

“Oh! And there’s a . . . very popular local band you might be interested in sampling. They play that trance/tribal/house fusion-stuff you like so much, Massem. It’s short notice, but they owe me a favor. I can have them scheduled for a set here before the end of your stay. If you’re interested, that is.”

 

Poe and Finn shared a glance. Finn smiled, excited and alert, under a thick veneer of hapless-pretty. Poe nodded and returned the smile nervously, under a thin veneer of . . . _something_. Whatever the smile looked like, Finn winced, then darted in quickly to steal a kiss before turning back to Maz. “What’ll the cover be?”

 

“Eh, nothing _too_ steep, but worse comes to worse, we can work out something that’s beneficial for all parties involved. Take it from me, boys: _this band_ is the band you seek,” Maz promised, turning toward the staircase to the second level. The stairs had been rebuilt with rose-quartz-colored stone, as milky and mysterious as an overcast Naboo sunset. When she waved for them to follow, they did so, holding hands and walking very close.

 

Poe’s smile, now, was very real, if not particularly mirthful.

 

They’d have a reliable lead—a _possible_ one, anyway—within four days.

 

It was a start.

 

#

 

“Soooo,” Poe exhaled, quiet and easy, his arm around Finn’s waist. His hand was on Finn’s hip, just above the grip of Finn’s pistol, squeezing in question as they reached the end of the trail that lead from Maz’s place.

 

They were strolling back toward the junker—and Bee, who’d be _thrilled_ that he was looking at a minimum of four days of cooling his metaphorical heels in said junker—in no especial rush, meandering like any vacationing, young couple. They were leaving the castle, ostensibly to get the luggage they’d “forgotten” in all their “anniversary excitement.” But they were still within sight of the growing structure and the various construction equipment just waiting for workers to take up the task of rebuilding for yet another day.

 

Finn leaned in to kiss Poe’s cheek and nuzzle his way to Poe’s ear. “Mm, save it for the room, stud. Ooh, or maybe for the _ship_. . . .”

 

 _Roger_ that _, sweetheart. Message received, loud and super-clear. Ears all_ over _the Maker-damned place. Fuck. . ._. “Or both,” Poe hummed with horny hope that wasn’t even half-put-on. Moving his hand to Finn’s eminently grab-able ass was also not half—or even one-third—put-on.

 

“Maybe . . . if you play your cards right.”

 

The wolfish, leering grin Poe wore the rest of the way to the junker was only about twelve percent put-on. But once the small, narrow ramp was drawn in and the doors shut, they both finally relaxed, sagging against each other with quickly-fading smiles. Poe’s hand shifted to Finn’s hip again, reassuring and commiserative. Relieved. Finn’s brief, but worried lean into Poe spoke volumes.

 

Bee rolled up to them, already scolding them. But before Poe could snap something poorly-considered and unmeant, Finn straightened, held up a hand, and shook his head. Bee instantly stopped, giving every impression of blank surprise that Poe also felt.

 

In some moments, Finn had a forceful focus that reminded Poe of _Leia Organa_ , as she’d been in old holos . . . speaking before the Senate and rallying the Republic: young, brash, and passionate. But in some recent, grimmer moments, he reminded Poe of _General Organa_ : staunch and stoic leader, calm strategist, _ruthlessly_ principled orchestrator of a successful Rebellion _and_ a Resistance, and guardian of the Republic, among other accomplishments.

 

But Leia Organa, _General_ Organa, and Finn Solo shared the same tightly-wound-and-controlled determination which, if even the surface of it were to be scratched, would gush fire and zeal like arterial spray. They bore the sort of adamant and unyielding—undying—conviction capable of setting an entire galaxy ablaze.

 

The sort of conviction and _vision_ which only a fool or a madman would stand against.

 

BB-8 being neither, the little droid beeped a quick interrogative, his dome turning from Finn’s face, to Poe’s, then back.

 

“Maz’s place is under surveillance, buddy. Listening devices, at least,” Poe told Bee, and he _bwaaahh_ ed unhappily, spinning in several anxious circles.

 

“She _suspects_ surveillance, anyway. But that’s good enough for _us_ to be extra careful going forward,” Finn added with solemn thoughtfulness. Poe nodded.

 

“But the _good_ news is, Dad either passed through here, or had contact with someone Maz knows. It’s gonna take her three or four days to set up a meeting with . . . whoever, but she can and will. And after that,” Poe said with a soft, warily hopeful sigh. “After that, assuming they’re either a cheap and/or sympathetic source of reliable information—or willing to be paid partially in IOUs—well . . . we’ll have our first lead on Dad. Maybe even a destination, temporary or otherwise.”

 

“The First Order surveilling Takodana is not good, Friend Poe and Friend Finn! The First Order surveilling Maz Kanata’s property is even worse! Resistance agents are stationed here regularly! And many loyal allies _live_ here, and on adjacent planets and satellites! We _must_ apprise General Organa of this threat!” Bee exclaimed. Poe and Finn exchanged a glance, and Finn shrugged, letting Poe handle the upset astromech.

 

“Bee, buddy, at this point, Maz is in a better place to safely warn the general than the three of us. Assuming she hasn’t, already.” Poe knelt before his friend, and smiled when Bee’s main optical sensor centered on his face. “I’d be awful surprised if the general didn’t have some idea of the climate on Takodana. And the three of _us_ wouldn't know because . . . well, we’re not supposed to be here.”

 

Poe shook his head sadly, but still found a smile for Finn, when Finn’s hand settled on his left shoulder, grounding and supportive.

 

“I’m putting the Resistance at risk for selfish reasons, but . . . I can’t not. He’s my _family_. My _only_ family, besides you—Maker help me if the First Order somehow got their hands on you, Finn, sweetheart—and Bee. . . .” Poe shook his head and hung it again. Finn squeezed his shoulder hard. “I guess at least now, I know the price of my loyalty and dedication. The outer bounds of it.”

 

“Poe. . . .”

 

“Even knowing this could all end up TARFUing the entire galaxy, I’d do it again. My only regret is that . . . I’m taking you and Bee down with me. Pulling you into this insane clusterfuck. Even so, I’m . . . I’m _so fucking glad_ you’re both here!” A brief bark of sound escaped Poe, and he had no idea if it was a laugh or a sob. He wasn’t even certain it mattered.

 

When Finn knelt next to him a few moments later, Poe was suspiciously wet about the eyes, his vision doubling and trebling.

 

“There’s no one I’d rather be in an insane clusterfuck with, Poe Dameron. _Massem_ ,” Finn corrected himself with shaky, but wry good humor. Bee immediately beeped agreement. Poe laughed again, letting himself be pulled into a strong hug and including his astromech in that hug, too.

 

“I’m sorry, baby,” he whispered, and Finn only hugged him closer, tighter, harder. Bee made a soft, mechanical churr.

 

“Don’t be sorry, Poe. I’m here because I _love_ you, and I’ll do _anything_ for you. Follow you _anywhere_ ,” Finn promised, with more agreement from Bee. Poe didn’t laugh again, just smiled ruefully—leaning into Finn the way Finn had leaned into him—clutching at his erstwhile husband and his astromech _tight_.

 

 _That’s why I’m sorry_ , he kept trapped behind the prison of his teeth. Finn deserved _better_ and always would. But Poe knew _himself_ well enough to realize that if Finn— _brilliant, observant, incisive Finn_ —wasn’t quite mercenary enough to figure that out on his own, well. . . .

 

 _Poe_ certainly had no plans to ever enlighten him on the matter.

 

_You deserve better, Finn . . . so much better, sweetheart. I’m so sorry._

 

#

 

Bee was, all told, surprisingly willing and tractable about staying in the junker, and keeping an eye on it and incoming ships and transmissions. Not to mention the comings and goings of Maz’s patrons.

 

If the castle was, indeed, bugged—and they all agreed that the First Order had the resources and reach to put some stone-cutters and carpenters in their pockets—and even watched, then Bee was determined to catch the bastards in the act soon enough to warn his pilot and friend before any shit went down.

 

Poe and Finn, but for a few excursions to the ship—mostly by Poe, since Finn’s face was probably more of a priority in the First Order wanted-files—stuck to Maz’s and their room.

 

In a way, it was like being back on the junker, just with more square footage and no Bee to start bleeping just when things got good.

 

Despite this freedom, both Poe and Finn seemed to work even harder to avoid any further consummation of their relationship. Even the mostly-clothed dry-humping and rushed handjobs that’d characterized the journey to Takodana.

 

But it was . . . not easy fighting the urge. The _need_. As the hours and days limped on, Poe couldn’t even let himself buss Finn’s cheek, because he knew that if he did . . . he wouldn’t stop until their first time was parsecs behind them without any of the pomp and romance Finn deserved, and which Poe _wanted_ to lavish on him.

 

Poe took a lot of cold showers for four days and three nights. Though, only after jerking off repeatedly in long, hot ones immediately before.

 

And Finn . . . tinkered with their pistols and his smuggled-in blaster, and meditated. Even while Poe slept, Finn meditated, his face serene and unreadable, but for the occasional furrowing of his brow, his eyes closed. The dark fan of his lashes described such a poignant arc on the curve of his cheek and his mouth was a calm, kissable half-smile, and Poe—

 

—Poe took a _lot_ of showers, hot and cold. He didn’t leave the room but to check on Bee, or to get food. And get booze for himself, which he drank while sprawled in bed, while Finn meditated in a chair near the room’s one glas-steel window.

 

And though it was pure torture, Poe stayed and drank and _stared at Finn_ for days, with little relief or desire for it. For it went without saying that Poe being anxious, sexually and generally frustrated, and piss-drunk in Maz’s main bar, _alone_ , was . . . not a safe prospect.

 

On their final evening at Maz’s, a stir-crazy Poe, practically off his rocker with irritation and uncertainty, nerves and impatience—balls bluer than a six days-dead tauntaun—and _fear_ for his father, managed to rouse Finn from his recurring meditation. With judicious use of kisses and nuzzles, as well as the patented _Bey puppy-eyes_ , they were heading down to the bar to see the band Maz had “recommended” as a cover for the ETA of her informant or contact.

 

The crowd was middling and distracted. Not many were paying attention to the band, as of their set-up. Not that the members of Order of the Night seem bothered by that. And once they opened their set, many patrons migrated toward the stage. Poe and Finn, in a corner neither near nor far from the stage, and not in the direct lighting overhead, settled in for the main show, with one eye always on the crowd. Or, _Finn_ had one eye on the crowd. Poe, finally burnt out from days of little sleep and playing a part that he had little focus to support, what with his father's safety and life on the line, had been close to drunk well before the band had started setting up. By the time they finished their first song, Poe was partially held up by Finn and partially held up by the wall at their backs.

 

Order of the Night was composed of a two Twi’ileks, a Human, a Manadalorian, and a Zabrak whose piercing-pale stare seemed to always land on Poe and Finn, despite the growing, shifting crowd.

 

Rather . . . it always landed on _Finn_ , after the first few times. Poe made a point of being grimly possessive—as he felt his _cover persona_ would surely be, with some random musician intently staring holes into his _husband_ —but the Zabrak percussionist ignored Poe completely.

 

Halfway through the set, he also stopped staring at Finn quite so often, though, and that was a relief . . . at first. At least until Poe realized _Finn_ was still staring openly at the Zabrak, a look of confusion, curiosity, and near-recognition on his solemn face.

 

Whether the Zabrak’s intent interest was personal and attraction-based, or there was some sort of recognition and underhanded agenda behind it, Poe was not at all comforted by the unhidden attention paid Finn. Not when that attention was so pointedly focused on nothing and no one else. Only Finn.

 

Poe certainly wasn’t comforted by Finn’s reciprocated and steady curiosity, _whatever_ its reason.

 

The band’s sound was, at turns, moody-weird, and thudding-eerie. Once he eased-up on his staring, and began really listening to the music, Finn seemed mystified by their sound, then bemused. Then entranced. Poe, after several more drinks—on an empty, and nervous stomach, to boot—grudgingly admitted to himself that he didn’t mind their sound too much. At least, not as long as he remembered to occasionally make his ears pop.

 

After Order of the Night finished their interminable set, they quickly broke down instruments and portable sound systems. The next band started their set-up as Order of the Night began shuttling equipment out to their transport. The crowd near the stage had broken up, most of them heading to the main bar, the bathrooms, or outside for air.

 

With a brief, but heart-felt kiss for Finn, Poe nodded to the main bar and waggled his eyebrows. Finn snorted, and he let _his_ eyebrows lift pointedly.

 

“Right. Keep this up, and I’m gonna have to carry you back to our room. Or maybe I’ll just roll you into a corner and leave you _here_ to sleep it off.” Finn’s tone suggested that this was neither joke, nor put-on for the purposes of whomever might be listening.

 

Poe grinned, crooked and wide and charming. Rather, he hoped it was charming . . . he’d sort of lost track of what his face was actually doing, at some point, and was just glad he could be reasonably certain it was still attached to his skull. “Just one more won’t put _me_ under the table, sweetheart.”

 

“Famous last words, hubby . . . ooh, get me a sparkling water, please!”

 

“Your wish is my command, light-of-my-heart.” Poe chuckled, already moving through the crowd, to the bar. A few minutes later, he started back to where he’d left Finn. In one hand was a Takodana microbrew IPA—something not quite as sobering as the water Poe _should’ve_ been swilling, yet not as a powerful an inebriant as the Corellian small batch whisky he’d been mainlining all evening—for himself and in the other, sparkling water for his long-suffering _husband_.

 

Order of the Night and all their stuff was gone . . . except for the Zabrak percussionist, who was chatting with Finn. At a respectful distance, but considering the intensity of the man’s bearing and gaze, even _respectful_ seemed far-too-fucking-close for him to be standing to Poe’s. . . .

 

Well, they certainly weren’t _lovers_ , yet, thanks to Poe’s efforts to be honorable and romantic, and to do the deep feelings and desire and _synergy_ between them justice.

 

The Zabrak, who was tall for his kind, with a few inches on Finn’s—and Poe’s—average height, was built solidly. Broad but not brawny, yet not rangy, either. He was, however, clearly strong under his forgettable togs of mid-weight, dun-colored tunic and not-quite-baggy, light-tan trousers. Which were belted at his waist with a sash that was mostly a void-y twilight, but ombred to a pale sort of misty-indigo at the ends, which almost trailed the floor.

 

Jealousy flaring in his mind, heart, blood, and marrow as stirrings of sludgy rage-heat, Poe studied the Zabrak more closely. His complexion was a rather uncommon pale-ecru with burnt-orange tattoos swirling mysteriously across his face and around his pale, up-slanted eyes. The usual Zabraki horns were circled around the top of his head like a crown and were longer moving toward the front of his head, culminating in the tallest horn where a human’s forelock would be. And though they looked sharp enough for some deadly head-butting, the horns surprisingly added to the man’s . . . eerie-dark attractiveness, rather than detracted from it, to Poe’s dismay.

 

And Poe’s dismay wasn’t unfounded, if Finn’s smile and wide, startled— _intrigued_ —eyes were any indication. He was leaning against the same wall where Poe’d left him, minutes ago, not especially inclined toward the Zabrak percussionist. Yet . . . every line of him and those dark, shining eyes said he wouldn’t be unhappy or uncomfortable if the other man were to move closer. . . .

 

Poe didn’t even remember that he was holding two beverages until his hands started to ache from clenching around plastic alloy cups that wouldn’t break until long after Poe had.

 

Taking a large gulp of his now-tasteless IPA, Poe started walking again, measured but determined, shoving past anyone in his way without a _sorry_ or _excuse me_ , or even a glance back, despite being called a few choice names. By the time he got close to the Zabrak musician and Finn, the former was smiling, wistful and charmed, as Finn chuckled at something he’d said. Poe felt a pang of panic and possessiveness that seemed to hit every part of him like laser canon-blasts to gut, heart, and soul.

 

With the exceptions of people Poe considered _family_ —such as Jess, Snap, Karé, Nien, General Organa, Luke, and Rey—Finn laughing at jokes told by someone who was _attractive and charismatic_ was . . . alarming.

 

Because making Finn laugh wasn’t the _only_ way to his heart, but it was one of the _quickest_ ways, that was for-damned-sure.

 

“But, such is the way of these things, and will always be the way of them,” the Zabrak concluded serenely as Poe stopped next to them, resisting the _biological imperative_ to step between them. The musician’s voice was low and lyrical, and lightly inflected with an accent that Poe could, at the moment, only recognize as not being a typical Zabraki one.

 

The musician’s smile widened as he took his time glancing over at and acknowledging Poe with amused inquisitiveness. Finn’s gaze followed, too, markedly behind, as if tearing his sight away from the Zabrak was . . . difficult and unpleasant. Even as Finn’s dark, welcoming, affectionate eyes met Poe’s, Poe felt the bottom drop out of his stomach.

 

He couldn’t tell if that welcome and affection was a reaction to his return, or leftover from time spent looking at this obvious admirer.

 

For a few moments, Poe couldn’t imagine it was more likely to be the former. Objectively speaking, sure, Poe was good-looking enough. Charming as all get-out, when he extended himself. Funny, too. But what chance did any of that friendzone-bullshit have against enigmatic, dark, and dangerous? _Uncommon_? And, just based on that smoke-and-whisky voice, the Zabrak could probably _easily out-sing_ Poe, as well.

 

Then, Poe’s sludgy rage-heat was clearing into something sharper, cooler, and fiercer. He’d already possibly lost his father, either to the wilds of the galaxy, or to the First Order, if they found him before Poe and Finn did. But he didn’t mean to lose _Finn_ , too. Not until and unless Finn _asked_ him to let go. . . .

 

Poe’s heart actually stuttered as—for the first time in the nearly five weeks since the night they’d admitted their feelings for each other and committed to rescuing Kes—Poe understood that Finn asking to be let go was a . . . possibility. He wouldn’t be the first guy to get sick of Poe’s shit. Of Poe’s jealousy, possessiveness, _aggressiveness_ , and bullheaded, argumentative nature when he was put on the defensive or felt even a little vulnerable.

 

Swallowing, Poe let his gaze drift from the Zabrak’s weird, pale orange-gold eyes—they seemed to flicker like live flames trapped behind glass—back to Finn’s gentle, bright-dark-beautiful ones. As ever, something at his core shifted, settled, and expanded.

 

Poe’d be fucked if he’d let some kriffing amateur-hour, nerfherding _musician_ try to stake a claim on _Poe’s territory_.

 

“Hey-hey, honey, mine. Miss me?” he purred, getting up in Finn’s space, and lingering for a few sultry seconds outside of a kiss that was all passion and showy claiming. Said show was, of course, only for the benefit of the watching Zabrak. And for Finn . . . _always_ for Finn.

 

Finn’s lips were so soft and absolutely _perfect_. They were worshipful and acquiescent against Poe’s, parting at even the slightest urging of Poe’s tongue, and eagerly welcoming. His mouth was wet-slick-warm, and he tasted sweet-tart and vaguely minty, like fruit juice and toothpaste. As ever, his kiss started shy and demure, then grew slowly, but steadily more wanton and shameless. Greedy and ravenous and _owning_ , until Poe knew with soul-deep contentment that, of the two of them, _Finn_ was the _truly_ possessive one. That Poe wasn’t the only one staking claims with every kiss.

 

In the face of once more realizing that happy fact, _kriffing amateur-hour, nerfherding musicians_ were tiny, forgettable nothings that meant less than that. Could never cloud or erase what was, for Poe, all the certainty in the galaxy, pressed warm and sure against him. Existing with and for him, and with strong, loving arms around him.

 

When Poe was finally allowed to end the kiss, Finn was blinking and panting and looking flatteringly hungry-dazed. Panting himself, but also smirking, Poe turned a smug gaze on the musician, whose brow was furrowed. Though not, Poe sensed, from being stymied in his intentions. Rather, he _did_ seem stymied, but now Poe was growing quickly suspicious that the Zabrak’s intentions weren’t what they seemed.

 

Not entirely, anyway. The other man was likely attracted to Finn—Poe couldn’t imagine anyone _not_ being attracted to Finn—but that wasn’t necessarily the only reason for his intrusion.

 

“I _always_ miss you when you’re not right next to me, love,” Finn managed, simple and sincere. And not a part of their cover as a married couple, even though it probably worked pretty well for that, too.

 

“I’ll try not to let it happen again, then,” Poe promised turning back to Finn for another kiss, this one quick, but still sweet-sinful enough to make even Poe’s knees a bit weak. Clearing his throat, he pressed the cup of sparkling water into Finn’s hand, then shifted to lean against the wall and Finn. Finn leaned right back into Poe with a soft, dreamy little sigh, then chuckled, sounding somewhat chagrined as he took a gulp of his water.

 

“Um. Sorry, Sanguine. I, um, got distracted,” he apologized to the Zabrak, who inclined his head magnanimously.

 

“Yes, so I gathered.” Those flame-bright eyes ticked to Poe, assessing and amused, once more. “This must be your husband.”

 

“Yeah, um. Po— _Massem_ , this is Sanguine Conoclast. Sanguine, this is my h-husband, Massem.”

 

“Charmed.” Poe’s voice was flat and utterly _un_ charmed. The Zabrak’s— _Conoclast’s_ —smile widened a knowing, almost _pleased_ tick.

 

“And I am edified and honored to meet you both,” he claimed, with a shallow, but undoubtedly sincere bow. And even though most of the sincerity was clearly aimed at Finn, there was more than a little aimed at Poe, as well. Enough that Poe was surprised into relaxing his tense shoulders and leavening his aggressive stare. Though, the moment he relaxed, his inebriated tongue ran away with his brain.

 

“I didn’t know Zabraki were even _capable_ of feeling those things when it came to _non_ -Zabraki . . . let alone _inclined_ to feeling them,” he drawled, only just managing not to sneer. Conoclast’s prominent brows lifted and his smile thinned.

 

“Perhaps my Iridonian kin sometimes lack the foresight to recognize that worth doesn’t lay more within one race than another. But _I_ am Dathomirian, and I prefer to judge worth on an . . . individual basis, rather than a racial one.” There was a subtle rebuke in that statement that Poe could neither rebut nor refute, which made that rage-heat flare within him, down to his smallest, loneliest atom. It was sharp and focused on the surface, but sludgier than ever toward his core. It made him feel pointedly and pointlessly hostile, childish and churlish. As if he was being needlessly spiteful and immature.

 

But even as Poe kicked himself for being all of those things—and maybe prejudiced and bigoted, too—in front of the man whose good opinion meant _everything_ , he still couldn’t help his descent into macho dick-measuring. He slid his arm around Finn’s shoulders and gave Conoclast the patented Dameron, No-Bullshit Eyebrow. “ _Gotcha_. So, why do I get the feeling that when it comes to _my husband_ , you’re doing more judging with your _dick_ than with your open, egalitarian mind?”

 

Conoclast’s smile was completely gone, by now. Those orange-gold eyes seemed far more orange, than gold—bordering on a weird, rage-y vermillion near the outer irises. His stoic facial expression didn’t change, but his manner and _vibe_ did. Grew colder, older, _harder_ , and pitiless . . . the eyes of someone with an ethical code that Poe might not even classify as one, even if he was able to recognize its existence.

 

For moments, Poe only stood there, still, small, and naked— _defenseless_ —under that gaze and regard. He felt and _knew_ that despite appearing to live up to that surely assumed name, this _Sanguine Conoclast_ was anything but. At least in _this_ moment, in which Poe had obviously crossed some invisible line.

 

Poe didn’t know much about Dathomirians—few facts, other than they were a relatively endangered, once nearly extinct race—beyond vague rumors, legend, and propaganda about the Nightsisters. Less, still, about the Nightbrothers. A few of the latter had gone Sith, during the Old Republic. The Nightsisters, though occasionally allying with Sith, had tended to forge their own path through the Dark . . . and the Sith had _never_ liked any trailblazers and innovators who weren’t under their ungenerous thumb.

 

 _This Dathomirian_ could be _. . . but no. The last of the Sith were wiped out with the Emperor and Vader. And even if they hadn’t been, not all Dark-siders are Sith, or Knights of Ren. Not all of them want to take over the universe. Some just like playing games and stirring shit up_ , Poe reminded himself. _Comforted_ himself as he tried to muster up a piercing glare under Conoclast’s icy-burning gaze . . . and failed. The other man held his stare with one that seemed to bore and tunnel and _flay_.

 

Poe suddenly understood that this Dathomirian knew _exactly_ who he was. Who _Finn_ was. Not just their real names, but all the things and people they _were_ behind and besides those concise, convenient, means-nothing labels.

 

And such was Conoclast’s interest in Finn that _Poe_ was being tolerated and humored. But, as everyone knew, Dathomirian Zabraks, along with their Iridonian kin, were rather low on tolerance and humor when pushed even a little. . . .

 

Conoclast’s flaring-flashing eyes narrowed minutely. _Indeed. And Dathomirian Zabraks, especially, have been known to . . ._ push back _, Poe Dameron. For your information._

 

The clarion-chill of a thought that _hadn’t_ originated in Poe’s mind nonetheless rang throughout it, alien and adamant, like the vapor off a glacier but with a granite core. Every hair on Poe’s body was instantly in competition with every inch of his skin, for standing-on-end and goose-bumping resources. It was a dead-heat race as to which was winning. Poe, caught in the immediacy of the Dathomirian’s consideration—then the man’s distant graciousness as he let Poe’s insolence slide, like tolerating the barking of a quarrelsome cur on a short leash—was in no state to predict a victor.

 

 _An apt simile. For though I wear and endeavor to embody that state, now,_ Sanguine _was not the name for which I showed an affinity when I lived amongst and strove alongside my brethren,_ that ice and stone mind-voice advised Poe calmly. The threat behind the . . . _tone_ , and the intrusion of it echoing in Poe’s skull was all the more striking and chilling, for the absence of discernable expression on

 

— _Sanguine Conoclast, once named “Wrathful,” by the Nightbrothers, and called Gainsayer, Doubter, and Wanderer . . . eternal student of the way of Balance_ —

 

this Dathomirian’s placid face. His flame-bright eyes were still . . . _sanguine_ , but they were entirely lacking the amusement and near-benevolence of moments ago. At least, until they shifted to Finn once more. Then, Conoclast allowed himself another small smile, and the heat in his eyes had nothing to do with _wrath_.

 

It also was rather more than _friendly,_ that heat. That _warmth_.

 

“A final and free bit of . . . observation,” Conoclast murmured, inclining his head to Finn in a way that was both reverent and courtly, without averting his gaze from Finn’s face and its slightly dazed expression. “Atimes, one may struggle and chafe on what _seems_ like one’s true path, and yet . . . one may not be suited to travel the opposite path, either. The polar struggle rages in such persons ever louder and, if left to do so, _forces_ those persons to commit to a path under pressure . . . in a moment not of their choosing.” The Dathomirian looked torn and deeply troubled for long moments, scanning Finn’s confused face before sighing. “The choice is, of course, the indiviual’s, alone. It can never be otherwise. But should such a person ever seek to find peace and _balance_ in the center of a sphere, rather than follow the rank-and-file to either end of what many _wrongly assume_ is a continuum . . . when that student is ready, the teacher will appear. No matter what _path_ the student has already started down. For, there _is_ no path, straight or winding. There are only patterns and choices, and the consequences of patterns and choices spawning more of the same. Thus, one must _bear up under_ the responsibility for the choices one makes and creates, with vigilance and care and wisdom. _Paths_ are convenient trenches for avoiding _mindful_ choice. A series of presets that allow one the seeming luxury of not thinking. But balance is _always_ sought and maintained by those with long memories . . . and longer foresight. _That_ is the great and never-ending struggle. Good evening.”

 

With a final, wider smile for Finn and a grimly veiled glance at Poe—and now, for a moment, it _was_ rather pitying and sardonic—Conoclast bowed once again, then moved through the crowd in a stately, unhurried fashion. Patrons stepped respectfully, but not fearfully out of his way. Some even hailed him, although those hails weren’t exactly friendly and familiar. Conoclast returned such greetings with a simple nod of acknowledgement that didn’t encourage further pleasantries.

 

When the exit doors shut behind him, Poe gaped at those doors for nearly a minute, his mind gone utterly blank. Then thought returned with force and a jarring jolt, regarding the past few minutes. He shivered as his gooseflesh faded and his hackles relaxed, wondering what _that’d_ all been about . . . even though his mind was fuzzy on exactly what _that_ had been. Something about . . . traveling? And balancing stuff?

 

Poe shook his head and supposed it didn’t matter. Neither did the vague jealousy he dimly recalled feeling. Why had he been so upset about some weird asshole hitting on Finn? Even if said asshole was tall, dark, and mysterious, _Finn_ wasn’t fickle or easily-swayed. Was _loyal_ in ways that were deep and humbling, even to Poe Dameron.

 

Finally, he huffed and turned back to Finn. That dark, curious, considering gaze was still on the exit, his kissable mouth turned down in a slight frown. Suddenly, Poe’s recall of that vague jealousy—if nothing else surrounding it—wasn’t so vague or distant.

 

“Should I be making an issue of why some random, emo prick was trying to chat-up my guy?” Poe asked, meaning for it to sound playful, but it sounded snarky, defensive, and petulant. He flushed, but Finn didn’t see it, at first, still staring at the exit. Then, when he turned to Poe, he blinked rapidly, repeatedly, like a man awakening from a strange and disorienting dream.

 

It seemed to take him a few moments to focus on Poe’s face and by the time he did, Poe was worried about more than his own damned blushing and jealousy.

 

“Sweetheart?” he asked quietly, leaning in to kiss Finn’s chick. Finn made a soft, startled-confused sound, then his cup-free hand settled on Poe’s waist, near the pocket of his jacket.

 

“I’m just a bit drained. You’ve been keeping me pretty busy the past few days, stud,” Finn said, sexy and sly and _shaky_. His gaze was still absent and uncertain, but he turned his face up to Poe’s. “Not that I’m complaining.”

 

Poe’s eyes widened as Finn deposited something in his pocket, then pressed what felt like a data-chip firmly against Poe’s side, in case Poe hadn’t gotten the message.

 

But Poe had, Roger, _that_.

 

 _Maz has some varied contacts and informants, Maker bless her_ , he thought as he smirked at Finn. In seconds, Poe Dameron had lost his by-his-fingernails grasp of the previous minutes and their Dathomirian star. “Better not be. We got one more night of anniversary-sex waiting for us, babe. Unless you’re too drained and you’d rather just crash when we go back to our room—I’ll understand, if you _do_ , buuuuut. . . .”

 

A minute later, Poe was laughing as Finn let the kiss he’d leaned in for break, but lingered to murmur on Poe’s tingling lips. “ _Never_ too drained for that.”

 

“Yeah?” Poe grinned.

 

“ _Oh_ , yeah.”

 

Still grinning, Poe crowded Finn against the wall for a kiss that turned into several. Then it turned into Poe pinning him and lowkey grinding against him while they made out. Until Poe, at least, lost track of _everything_ else, including their need to keep a low profile . . . lost it in the citrus-clean taste of Finn’s lips, mouth, and tongue; the way Finn’s free hand clutched at Poe’s left hip, then his ass; each and every vibration of each and every moan Finn voiced. Poe swallowed those sweet, sensual sounds as his due and did his best to inspire more, his own free hand on Finn’s ass, squeezing tight and urgent.

 

“ _Poe_ ,” Finn puffed soundlessly on Poe’s lips when they parted slightly for quick gulps of air. Poe ground his hips against Finn’s, his hard-on into Finn’s, and nuzzled Finn’s nose with his own.

 

“Sweetheart, I wanna be with you _so bad_. So, _so bad_. . . .” he sighed, though it was more than half-groan, and increased the pressure and speed of his kneading of Finn’s ass. “You don’t even _know_ how bad, baby.”

 

“Don’t I?” Finn’s voice was breathless and rueful, and even though Poe felt guilty and horrible for the past four weeks—and for the forthcoming several minutes—that didn’t stop him from claiming another voraciously intent kiss from Finn. One that took and demanded, until Finn’s body, though still acquiescent and pliant—yearning and willing—was no longer submissive. Finn’s contained, restrained writhing and grinding against Poe turned sinuous and sinful in a way it hadn’t been even during the most desperate of the cabin fever dry-humping on the junker.

 

This loss of propriety and control in _Finn Solo_ , was the most arousing and intoxicating force-field of want and _need_ that Poe had ever been caught up in. And, certainly, the most seductive.

 

Suddenly, all of Poe’s reasons for waiting until the right moment, and savoring-suffering every moment that brought them together repeatedly, just like this, seemed . . . far away. _Silly_.

 

 _Especially_ wasteful in light of the dangers they now faced searching for Kes. . . .

 

“Keep _that_ up, and I’ll have to curtain off this corner and charge admission to stand near you two!”

 

Startled, Poe broke the kiss and glanced around. And down. Maz’s googly eyes were exasperated and incredulous.

 

“Uhhh,” Poe said, flushing then blanching as he remembered where they were and why. He darted a glance at Finn and caught the most acquisitive, single-minded expression on his face and in those deep, dark eyes. Swallowing around a lump that felt like his heart _and_ his stomach glued together, and ignoring his dick _and_ Finn’s, Poe grimaced back at Maz. “Right, uh . . . sorry?”

 

“Not-so-newlyweds!” She scoffed, but there was real irritation and sternness in her eyes. Real _concern_. Poe went cold as he thought of the eyes that had not only seen them— _seen them_ , seen them—but would remember them.

 

Or might, having noticed them, start making connections.

 

“Since Order of the Night put you in such a frisky mood, you might want to move the party up to your room,” Maz suggested, wiggling her brows again. “Or take it outside. And if I don’t see you two lovebirds in the morning before you go, it’s been quite an experience to see you again! Until next year?”

 

“Assuming I haven’t been swept off my feet by a man who can actually _remember_ our anniversary, you certainly will,” Finn replied in a nervous rush, chuckling stiltedly. Poe, taking refuge in his role once more, huffed and rolled his eyes, then brushed a quick, chaste buss on Finn’s cheek.

 

“I never assume anything, so I won’t be placing bets, either way. Safe journeys, you two! And good luck!” Maz’s small, wiry form was swallowed by the once more gathering crowd, less than a meter away from where Poe and Finn stood still pressed together. On the stage, the next band, Dantooine Dream, was just starting to tune-up. They appeared to be an all-strings band. Poe recognized a modified guitern, a Naboo-style lute, and a Gungan zither . . . but had no idea what any of the _other nine instruments_ were. . . .

 

Poe and Finn glanced at each other and made similar, tacitly agreeing faces. Poe smirked again, but it was grim, as was the smile Finn responded with. They both leaned in for another kiss, only slightly less showy than their last one had been, but infinitely less genuine. Whatever Finn was thinking about, Poe was thinking about his father once more. About _finally_ having a solid lead. Maybe.

 

They’d know for sure, hopefully, once they got the chip to Bee for safe decrypting. Poe’s precocious astromech could decrypt-encrypt and holo-project the chip’s contents, with little likelihood of being hacked or somehow tipping-off even First Order surveillance.

 

“Mm, darling, you’re _wasted_ ,” Finn accused after breaking their fake-kiss with a chuckle. His free hand was light and still on Poe’s chest, while Poe’s hand was still reflexively clenching and releasing on Finn’s ass. And not just because Finn’s ass was so divine and irresistible. They needed to get to the junker and start on the trail, before said trail went colder than vacuum. Before Kes Dameron had hidden himself so well, _no one_ would be able to find him. . . .

 

They _really_ needed to decrypt that chip.

 

“ _You’re_ wasted,” Poe finally retorted petulantly, purposely a touch too loud and a wee bit belligerent. Finn chuckled again, pecking the tip of Poe’s nose.

 

“Obviously. And since _I_ clearly can’t hold my liquor, what _I_ need is a nice, moonlit stroll and the bracing night air,” he said with wry fondness. And, whether put-on or not, it made Poe’s heart ache . . . the affectionate ease of Finn’s tone and manner.

 

The affectionate ease of _Finn_.

 

Poe had been buzzing with impatience and hope from the moment Finn had slipped him the data-chip all of ten minutes ago. For the past several days, really, he’d been restless under the necessity of maintaining their roles so carefully. But after their previous make-out session had made them more visible—more _memorable_ —despite the unalloyed **_YES_** that was canoodling with Finn, and being pressed up against him for intensive kissing and petting, Poe was practically wearing a groove in the floor. Vibrating in place with the need to _get a move on_.

 

To _find Dad_.

 

But Finn’s tone . . . the warmth and _heat_ in his eyes, and the firm-yielding welcome of his body, willingly trapped between Poe’s and the wall. . . .

 

Even just that was enough to distract Poe’s nerves and redirect his focus, if only briefly. And never mind all his hopes and desires for the rest of the evening. For the future. For . . . _ever_.

 

“A stroll, huh?” he grumbled, fighting the urge to drag Finn not to the exit, and thence the junker and Bee, but back toward the room that’d seen them torture each other for four days and three nights. Even though Poe’d sobered up markedly since the advent of the data-chip, _Massem_ had been drinking steadily all evening, and would still be relaxed and probably _not_ interested in walking around in the bracing early-spring night. Not when things had been getting so heated between himself and _Rylen_.

 

“Yes, a stroll, dearest.” Such a perfect touch of exasperation, amusement, and fondness in Finn’s modulated voice, neither loud nor low, tied Poe’s entire being in knots that were bitter, sweet, and probably permanent. “You’ll have bad dreams if you pass out without clearing your head, first. So, yes: fresh air.”

 

“Who said anything ‘bout _passing out_ , gorgeous? Anyway . . . things were getting so promising _right here_ ,” Poe protested, slowly, but not quite slurring, and pinning Finn to the wall with the appearance of intent. Though the appearance wasn’t remotely fake or forced, simply . . . to-be-thwarted by necessity. Finn smirked at him, but his eyes were wry and frustrated. Wistful.

 

“And they’ll _always_ be promising for _you_ , soldier,” Finn promised, that easy warmth of the Rylen-role replaced with something that was so bare and solemn and certain, Poe’s breath caught. For a little while, he didn’t know what to say. And neither did Finn, it seemed, until he broke their gazes and cleared his throat. “But first, walkies.”

 

“You . . . are the most beautiful person in this galaxy and every other,” Poe whispered, soft and choked, and for Finn’s ears only. “The way you make me _feel_ , sweetheart . . . even if I had a _hundred_ lifetimes to earn the way you _look at me_ —like I’m all the love and safety and home you’ll ever need or want—it still wouldn’t be _enough_ time. Maybe eternity would, though? I dunno. I guess the only way for us to find out for _sure_ is to stick with it and see where it goes, huh?”

 

When Finn’s dark, _surprised_ gaze met his again, Poe stole yet another kiss, hard and uncoordinated . . . but for all that, Finn tried to follow him with a quiet whimper when Poe pulled away. Not exactly _far_ away, but just far enough that he couldn’t feel Finn’s erection against his own, anymore.

 

But really, even that bare distance was just _universes_ too far away, in this moment.

 

Nevertheless, Poe pulled Finn after him and led the way to the exit, roles bedamned. And Finn drifted along after, smiling and looking dreamy-poleaxed, his hand trusting and warm in Poe’s.

 

Once free of the humid-crowded establishment, they pressed close to and clung to each other, but only partly because of the relative chill.

 

After a pause in the courtyard for another clinch and kiss, they began their meandering stroll toward the junker and Bee. Finn was warm and hyper-real under Poe’s sheltering arm, his own arm slung around Poe’s waist.

 

The moment was poignant, the night awash in silvery moonlight. Finn was safe at his side, and Poe . . . couldn’t help the song that came to his lips:

 

[ _I was young when I left home,_ ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7lNuuPDnoLA)

[ _And I been out a-ramblin' 'round,_ ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7lNuuPDnoLA)

[ _I never wrote a letter to my home._ ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7lNuuPDnoLA)

[ _To my home, Lord, to my home,_ ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7lNuuPDnoLA)

[ _And I never wrote a letter to my home._ ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7lNuuPDnoLA)

[ _It was just the other day,_ ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7lNuuPDnoLA)

[ _I was drinkin' on my pay,_ ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7lNuuPDnoLA)

[ _When I met an old friend I used to know._ ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7lNuuPDnoLA)

[ _He said, “Your mother's dead and gone,_ ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7lNuuPDnoLA)

[ _Your baby sister's all gone wrong,_ ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7lNuuPDnoLA)

[ _And your daddy needs you home, right away.”_ ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7lNuuPDnoLA)

[ ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7lNuuPDnoLA)

[ _Not a shirt on my back,_ ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7lNuuPDnoLA)

[ _Not a penny on my name._ ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7lNuuPDnoLA)

[ _Well, I can't go home this a-way._ ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7lNuuPDnoLA)

[ _This a-way, Lord, Lord, Lord,_ ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7lNuuPDnoLA)

[ _I can't go home this a-way._ ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7lNuuPDnoLA)

 

His voice was mostly on-key, and only slightly compromised because of drinking and the chill. Finn’s arm was tight around him and vice versa, and the night— _life_ —was simply beautiful. Precarious and ephemeral and . . . _beautiful_.

 

 _Finn_ was the most beautiful thing of all, the best of life as Poe knew it. And Poe was, as ever, amazed and nearly disoriented that such a bundle of wonder and light and sweetness had chosen _him_. Showed no signs of choosing anyone else.

 

That fluster and marveling and _gratitude_ was in every note he sang, all the way to the junker.

 

He’d never realize or find out it was _the song_ that gave them away: yet another Llewyn Davis rarity, one little-known and rarely-played outside the Yavin system. In a true stroke of seemingly-random misfortune, the half-asleep, First Order surveillance agent who was scanning the audio feeds for that portion of Maz’s property liked the lyrics and tune well enough to Mo’ogle them. _Anything_ to keep himself awake through yet another endless ten hour-shift. . . .

 

_If you miss the train I'm on,_

_Count the days I'm gone,_

_And you'll hear that whistle blow a hundred miles._

_A hundred miles, a hundred, baby,_

_Lord, Lord, Lord,_

_And you'll hear that whistle blow a hundred miles. . . ._

 

After four careful days of pretense—and four-ish weeks of cagey caution that had verged on well-justified paranoia—though they’d leave just after dawn, Poe and Finn would be _made_ by mid-morning.

 

Made and pursued. _Sought_.

 

And it was Llewyn Davis and Poe’s romantic, _stupid_ heart who were to blame.

 

TBC

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aimed-for completion/posting of the final chapter of this fic is the week of January 21st. Thank you so much to those who subbed, bookmarked, and otherwise kept tabs and hoped for more. And thank you especially to Skipchat.


	4. Fare Thee Well

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The TARFU chapter. Or FUBAR. Whichever military acronym you prefer. And yeah, I quoted Admiral Ackbar, in this chapter. Fite me.  
> /pugnacity

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes/Warnings: Post-TFA AU, but canon-compliant up to the end of TFA. Not canon for TLJ, which I still haven't seen. _Temporary_ major character deaths (this _is_ Star Wars, after all). I take liberties with the nature of Star Wars-reality/universal mechanics.

**4\. Fare Thee Well**

 

 

The next leg of Poe and Finn’s journey was uneventful and boring—yet again—aside from the usual epic amounts of sexual tension and self-denial. Even worry for Kes, though still an uneclipsable fact of life for them both, was far more controllable, thanks to their continued run of luck and the data-chip they somehow got that last night on Takodana. Poe couldn’t remember the particulars clearly, even when Finn tentatively pressed him to discuss it. And eventually, after increasingly wary and confused looks from Poe, Finn let the matter lie.

 

And, so it was, they made their optimistic way to Nakadia. Once again leaving Bee to watch the junker—if all went to plan, as it so frequently had since they left the Resistance Base—forgettably-dressed and inconspicuously armed, Poe and Finn made their way to _The Six-Tailed Spukama_.

 

Their contact, a smuggler and information dealer who’d had history with the Rebellion—and a seething, well-earned grudge against the Empire and its weak-sister wannabe, the First Order—owned a coffeehouse just off the main thoroughfare of the tightly-zoned micropolis that fringed Nakadia’s spaceport.

 

Their assigned landing spot wasn’t far from the _Spukama_ , and they walked, rather than wait for public transportation. They didn’t have to fake the affectionate hand-holding and wide-eyed tourism, though they took the quickest route suggested by a chirpy, helpful info-droid near Customs.

 

In less than half an hour, they were stepping into the toasty, atmospherically lit _Spukama_ , smiling and relieved to be out of the bracing chill of a polar summer.

 

It was past mid-day, so the morning and lunch-rushes had come and gone, leaving the place not quite empty. Poe and Finn made note of the other customers—several of them: two sharing an out-of-the-way table and staring into each other’s eyes; a trio playing some sort of board-game at a large, secondhand-looking wooden table; one plonked-down dead-center of the large sofa in the center of the main area; and one paying for a bucket-sized mug of what Poe hoped was—for their sake—not caffeinated.

 

Poe and Finn shared a glance and smile as the bucket-customer—a Twi’ilek with some pep in his step that certainly hinted at caffeine or an unusual zest for life—bounced past them, twitching slightly.

 

“Wherever _he’s_ goin’, he’s _not_ gonna need a transport of any kind, that’s for sure,” Poe quietly opined as the door-chime sounded, and Finn chuckled and rolled his eyes.

 

Behind the counter, eyeing their relaxed approach with weary sarcasm and hard-bitten amusement, was an older Human woman. She was probably whipcord-lean, under what seemed to be ten layers of earth-tone clothing and a thermal hat in a jaunty shade of periwinkle. She seemed to be shivering minutely, still, despite the layers and the heat, but that didn’t detract from her air of competence and keen readiness.

 

Age—at least seventy, or perhaps a tough-lived sixty—quite aside, as well as her lined and scarred face, and paper-pale skin, she put Poe, at least, in mind of Rey.

 

As he and Finn drew nearer the counter, the woman took a long, _close_ look at Poe with sharp, bright hazel eyes. Finally, she huffed then chuckled, raspy and wry.

 

“Weeeeell!” she exclaimed, but quietly. “Thank the Maker you look like your Mum, then, rather than your Dad!”

 

Poe’s jaw dropped and next to him, Finn tensed instantly, but not obviously. Poe only knew because of the way Finn’s fingers, linked with his own, clamped down for a few moments . . . then released. From the corner of his eye, Poe could see Finn smile his best befuddled-and-curious smile. Poe belatedly tried to copy it, but was probably less than successful, just going on the sharply-hoisted right eyebrow he received in response from the counter-woman.

 

“Yeah. _She_ couldn’t pull off the innocent lambkins-look to save her life, either. But she was . . . Maker, she was a beautiful woman. Just . . . beautiful. Brave and true and full of fire . . . beautiful,” she said in a clipped-terse-fast, Stewjon-slums accent. Her voice dropped from raspy, to gravelly and gruff, and her hazel eyes seemed rather less bright. “May she be one with the Force forever.”

 

Poe and Finn exchanged another glance as the counter-woman closed her eyes and bowed her head for a few moments. Before either of them could think of a response, those once-again bright-sharp eyes were ticking between them.

 

Then, the counter-woman huffed again. “ _Reen! Come take the counter!_ ” she called, not taking her eyes off Poe and Finn. Or, rather, off Poe’s face.

 

After a brief silence, there was a pouty-whiny affirmative from the direction of the out-of-the-way table.

 

The counter-woman snorted sardonically and nodded toward a narrow hall at the back of the main area, stepping out from behind the counter and making for it without ceremony or explanation.

 

Exchanging a third glance in as many minutes Poe and Finn—hands in hands and hands on pistols—followed.

 

They were led past the restrooms, stockrooms, and a janitorial closet, to a small, windowless—likely sound- and surveillance-proofed—office. The counter-woman waved them inside ahead of her with ironic deference and a crooked, commiserating smirk.

 

Once she shut the door behind all of them, she turned to face Poe and Finn, leaning heavily on that door. She sized them up once again before her smile relaxed and deepened.

 

“Kes had no doubts you’d make it this far. ‘My boy’s resourceful,’ he said, all fatherly faith and Dameron-pride. ‘His partner’s a _Pathfinder_ , too. You’ll be hearing from ‘em pretty soon, ‘Layn.’” The counter-woman— _their contact_ —let a calculated beat passed, and a barely-there furrow creased her lined brow, fading only a moment later. Her eyes were amused again, if a bit doubtful. “I have to admit, though, I . . . thought it’d be soon- _er_.”

 

“Well,” Finn replied with ease, but no warmth. His fingers were tense around Poe’s, once more. “One does what one can to avoid being caught by hostile powers. Or followed.”

 

The counter-woman’s eyes narrowed as she frowned, and looked them both over yet again. A minute later, she sighed, then hung and shook her head, muttering something that sounded like: _ain’t got tact or manners for bloody_ shite-all _, ‘Layn . . . not even for_ Shara’s _boy, apparently_.

 

When she looked up again, she quirked that smirk once more, crooked, but almost apologetic. The left side of her face, Poe noticed, remained slightly slack, even as the right lifted.

 

She’d likely suffered from at least one major stroke in the not-too-distant past, but Poe only filed that away from habit. He was for more closely focused on the realization of _who_ their contact was.

 

Who she had _been_.

 

“I _do_ appreciate you not leadin’ those plastoid-wearin’, Maker-damned arseholes to my well-swept bit of sidewalk. Sincerely. And I’m glad you made it this far without too much trouble . . . I hope?” she asked quietly, almost gravely.

 

“None at all, ma’am. And thank _you_ , for helping us. Really,” Finn replied, with markedly more warmth and an easing of his tone and tension. Poe squeezed Finn’s tense fingers once, pleased. And, also, excited and _star-struck_.

 

“You’re _Corporal ‘Layn_ ,” he said, with both awe and disbelief. He could feel Finn’s curious but brief glance, like a ray of sunlight quickly shuttered by clouds, once more. Blinking at them in shock, their contact’s jaw dropped in disbelief. Poe grinned. “Our, uh, lead pointed us to you as Dad’s facilitator. But I just . . . wow, I didn’t connect _that_ Balayn Rokaa with the _Corporal ‘Layn_ from Dad and Mom’s old stories about the Rebellion, until just now.”

 

Rokaa’s smirk wavered and gentled into a surprised, pleased smile, her eyes shining and full of emotion. “She— _they_ mentioned me? Told stories about _me_?”

 

“I’m kinda hard-pressed to remember war-stories of theirs that _didn’t_ have awesome cameos by Corporal ‘Layn,” Poe said, chuckling. Rokaa blushed a bit, but chuckled, too.

 

“That bloody Kes Dameron and his big, fat mouth! His stupid, arse-y nicknames always _did_ have a way of stickin’!” She sniffed and scowled, but it immediately turned back into a smile. “He and Shara were always after me to join-up, proper, but that wasn’t the life for me. Not the way for me to fight the bloody Empire. I’m more of a weasel, than a wolf. More _sneak_ than soldier.”

 

So saying, she strode past them, to her cluttered desk and around it—with a left-lurching limp that Poe only noticed now that he knew to look for it—still chuckling and pleased. “Hmph! Well! Enough old rubbish! You’ll be wantin’ the _Dancing Teek’s_ itinerary and a vouchsafe from me, for contacting them, yes?”

 

Poe and Finn exchanged a fourth glance, complete with hopeful grins, as she sat gingerly, with a relieved grunt.

 

“If that’s who Dad hitched a ride with, _yes_. We’d be so grateful. Thank you,” Poe said earnestly, still a bit star-struck at meeting the _actual Corporal ‘Layn_ who’d been such a character and regular in Poe’s story-heavy childhood. He shook his head incredulously. “Son of a gun, even if you didn’t have info on my dad, I’m . . . so fucking thrilled to finally _meet you!_ ”

 

“Aaaaah!” Rokaa waved a dismissive hand at him, but was redder than ever. Her lips were twitching with a repressed grin. “Got y’Mum’s devilish charm, obviously. And her wicked sense of humor, too. Not to mention that way she had of lookin’ at a body, that made ‘em feel ten parsecs tall. . . .

 

“Anyway!” Rokaa cleared her throat and blinked rapidly for a bit, before coming over markedly more businesslike. “The _Teek’s_ got a few stops en-route to the Endorian system. With its final port being Sanctuary Moon, for trading and to drop off a troupe of bloody Jinda performers. Tumblers and musicians, and the like. Then, the _Teek_ swings back ‘round to Mid-Rim. Your Dad didn’t say _where_ he was gonna jump ship and if wherever-it-is would be his final destination. And I didn’t ask. But you’ve got a start, and that’s better than nothin’, I reckon,” she added, grim and distracted for a moment as she leaned back in her creaking, leather-padded chair.

 

Then she focused on her terminal for a few minutes, mouth turned down in crooked concentration. Poe watched her work, still awed enough that he was gaping just a little, until Finn nudged him. When Poe dragged his gaze away from one of his childhood heroes and to his greatest hero, Finn grinned and tugged him close.

 

“You’re ridiculously adorable, Flyboy, and I love you,” he murmured on Poe’s lips when their kiss drew to a sweet, slow close. Poe chuckled and hummed, as Finn nuzzled his way down to Poe’s collar bone with busses and sighs.

 

“Love you, too, baby. Dunno what I’d do without ya.”

 

“You’ll never have to find out.”

 

“Hmm, I like the sound of that. . . .”

 

Both of them jumped, seconds later, when Rokaa cleared her throat pointedly. Then, Finn laughed and laid his head on Poe’s shoulder, and Poe returned his attention to Rokaa, blushing and chagrined. Her smile, however was measuring, approving, and aimed at Finn.

 

“Clearly you inherited Shara’s _taste in men_ , as well, Dameron-Junior: Tall, dark, and . . . _Pathfind-y_.” Rokaa snorted, removing one data-chip from her terminal’s media slot, then inserting another. When she looked at Poe and Finn again, the smile was that crooked smirk, once. “Stoic, overprotective . . . and bloody _ruthless_ where his precious pilot’s concerned, I’d bet. Well-done.”

 

Rokaa’s amused gaze ticked back to the terminal, and Poe blushed even harder . . . but he didn’t rush to deny what she’d surmised. Neither did Finn. He simply turned his face to Poe’s throat and smiled.

 

A minute later, Rokaa removed the second data-chip, and held both out to Poe with a big—also crooked—grin.

 

#

 

Rokaa wished Poe and Finn good luck as she shooed them out of her office and back out to the main area.

 

In one of the zippered, inner pockets of Poe’s grey and orange jacket were the two data chips: one with the _Dancing Teek’s_ planned route and stops, the other with Rokaa’s vouchsafe. The latter was encrypted to a fare-thee-well. Any attempt to decrypt it by someone who wasn’t _really_ familiar with her self-created protocols and code would cause the chip to self-wipe, _and_ take down any system to which it was connected.

 

When Poe and Finn lingered in front of her, at a loss for something to say—neither of them knew what more was to be said, even if they had the time to say it—Rokaa barked a brief, loud laugh.

 

“Oi, a speechless _Dameron_? Well, now, I have _truly_ seen a wonder! And long after I thought the galaxy’d run out of those!” She laughed again and, with simultaneous pats on the shoulder for them both, nodded wistfully. “Fare thee well, then, Shara’s boy and Pathfinder. Don’t be strangers.”

 

She gave them a sardonic, but jaunty-crisp salute Poe took to mean _good-bye_ and _good_ luck, then turned back toward her bunker-slash-office. Sharing yet another glance, Finn shrugged and smiled, and Poe grinned.

 

 _For once, a mission’s going pretty smoothly_ , he thought with hope that was still cautious, but not cautious enough, it turned out. For just then, three First Order agents crashed into the establishment through the right of two large picture windows to either side of the entrance, to a chorus of startled and frightened screams.

 

And on the heels of that, a small platoon of stormtroopers rushed in through the blasted-open door.

 

As quick on the draw as Poe could be—and he _was_ pretty quick, though his stronger skill was aim that rarely went awry, even in dire situations—Finn, as ever, was _much_ faster and at least as accurate.

 

 _Corporal ‘Layn_ —faster, _still_ , and a dead-shot, especially for someone physically compromised—had _already_ opened fire on the unwelcome guests in her coffeehouse. Her pistol fire whined past Poe and Finn, between and around them.

 

They ducked, then dived for cover behind the large, worn sofa, on which was a wounded, moaning patron. Not _too_ terribly wounded, for she was still sound-of-mind enough to roll off the sofa, to the floor, and under the huge, battered coffee-table. Even under the sounds of blaster-fire, Poe could still hear her frightened, wheezing-stifled sobbing.

 

The agents and stormtroopers were clearly under orders to bring them in alive, for questioning. But they’d received no such orders regarding the patrons, servers, and proprietress. A few of the _Spukama_ ’s patrons had fallen first. Rokaa was the next to catch blaster-fire, in the midst of firing from around her cover behind a free-standing pastry-display near the counter.

 

Even as he hoped against hope she wasn’t dead, Poe bobbed up from cover, and dropped a ‘trooper—based on their position and angle, it might even have been the one who got Rokaa—with a dead-on faceplate-shot. One that damaged the entire stupid, white helmet quite a bit. If the ‘trooper wearing it wasn’t blinded and soon-to-be-dead, then they shortly would be. And their so-called comrades would leave them behind, as was the First Order’s way.

 

When Poe had ducked behind the sofa once more, Finn activated his saber with a growl and darted from behind their cover before Poe could do more than gasp _NO!_

 

By the time Poe peered around the sofa in Finn’s wake, Finn was engaging a stormtrooper wielding an electro-saber because . . . _of course_. The First Order had surely long-since realized that their so-called traitor, Commander Dameron’s most frequent mission-partner—and the Force-sensitive soldier who’d cut down the better part of a half-legion of ‘troopers in the course of a single recon/sabotage mission—were the same person. So, _of course_ , they’d have sent at least one ‘trooper with saber-training.

 

The security footage of _that_ sabotage mission should have been enough for them to send a _full legion_ of saber-trained ‘troopers, and hedge their bets. And Poe sure wasn’t about to assume they _hadn’t_. No one had ever accused the Resistance of being lucky.

 

 _Though, no one’s ever accused the_ First Order _of being smart, either. Sewer-rat clever, perhaps, but not necessarily_ smart _, thank the Force for favors small and large,_ Poe thought, leaning out a bit more from behind the sofa, to cover Finn with suppressing fire.

 

He picked off another squad of ‘troopers as they filed in the door—followed by yet another agent, in red-accented black—rushing in like fools to aid the advance team. They just poured in, single-file . . . it was like shooting idiot fish in a kill-barrel.

 

Finn had taken care of the saber-wielder, and was parrying ‘trooper-fire, from the direction of door and window, like a pro. His double-handed swings were a green jacket-covered blur with a long fan of golden light at the end. The blade was so bright, and so hot it hissed _and fwoom_ ed as it cooked the humid-chilly northern air rapidly filling the coffeehouse. . . .

 

Poe was so caught up in the dangerous beauty of his lover’s grace and proficiency, that he was distracted for a few vital seconds. That was all it took for one of the original three agents—the only one still breathing—to flank him from the right and fire.

 

One moment, Poe was ducking back behind the left side of the sofa—which wouldn’t have blocked the aim of the right-flanking agent, anyway—and away from the awesome sight of Finn’s grimly glittering eyes and gorgeous face, both lit by golden light. The next, he was _down_ , pistol falling from his right hand as he collapsed in a sprawl on his back. He yelped, despite a long moment of shock between him and the pain of his injury, then rolled to his right, one arm already clutching at his right side and ribs.

 

Suddenly, they were lit-up like a supernova.

 

“ _POE!_ ” he heard Finn bellow, his voice cracking with horror and rage. But consciousness was already receding. Going, going, and gone . . . for a little while, anyway. . . .

 

But sizzling agony, grown larger and brighter than his entire existence, brought him back around quickly.

 

Disoriented and dizzy, Poe struggled to sit up, fighting pain and enervation and confusion. He wasn’t at all successful. He tried to blink his dodgy vision clear as he simultaneously rocked to his left. He had to see what was going on . . . had to see if _Finn_ was. . . .

 

Groaning and fighting not to black-out again from the molten agony, Poe rolled to his left side and managed to lever himself mostly upright. He lifted a head that seemed to weigh at least a ton and blinked away the worst of the darkness trying to cloud his vision. Though that vision was still doubling and trebling to the throb of Poe’s entire right side. He dragged himself toward the sounds of exertion-grunts and saber-fwooms, and after an interminable span of pain and striving, was at last gazing at triple of Finn.

 

He was fighting hard and _angry:_ all blunt, hack-and-bash power and instinct-keen speed. To Poe’s eyes, he was a blur of dark and light— _and Dark and Light_ —as he pressed his growing advantage, forcing the flagging stormtrooper into the corner between the counter and the exit.

 

In seconds, the ‘trooper was a lifeless heap of white plastoid, and Poe, Finn, and the whimpering-hidden customer under the coffee-table were the only people in the coffeehouse who were still moving. The others who hadn’t fled, were likely dead: employees, patrons, agents, and ‘troopers, alike.

 

In the midst of it all, the only person still _standing—_ his saber still activated as he scanned the destroyed shop—Finn Solo seemed to thrum and throb with power. With red-gold-cold _fury_ , like the epitome of a Sith-lord, only . . . that _couldn’t_ be right, because . . . _Finn_.

 

Finn.

 

Poe hung his head, for a few moments, wracked with guilt and despair, and dogged by thoughts he only half-understood.

_I’m sorry, sweetheart . . . so,_ so _sorry. You don’t deserve this. You never have. You were meant for_ so much better _. . ._ made _for so much better. And because of me, this is what it’s come to. What_ you’ve _come to. . . ._

 

But Poe lost that unhelpful train of thought under a wave of fresh pain. Groaning again, he wiped scorching, bitter tears from his cold cheeks. When the tears showed no signs of stopping, he gave up on _that_ endeavor, and looked around blearily searching the detritus-strewn floor to his right. It was the work of a moment to locate and scrabble-grab his dropped pistol with his shaking, partly-numb right hand.

 

Trying to _lift_ the pistol was another story: a tale of white-hot agony that made him almost black-out again during the telling.

 

For moments that were nearly infinite, he swam through cool, unknowing darkness—a relief of pain-free amnesia that he fought, nonetheless, to surface from.

 

When he did, he was being helped to his feet. Once on them and somewhat steady—with the assistance of whoever had helped him up—he was urged onward, past bodies, broken furniture, and shattered glass, and out into the overcast afternoon.

 

The white-bright sunlight hurt Poe’s eyes and he hissed. He nonetheless let himself be towed and directed through the profusion of light and metallic-sheened color. In the distance, but getting nearer, sirens sounded. He leaned heavily on his helper, who was muttering a mile a minute, his voice choked with worry and breathless from exertion. Or perhaps panic.

 

“—on, Poe, _stay with me_ , okay? Okay. You’re alright . . . you’re _alright_. . . .”

 

Poe recognized that voice. It was the _best_ voice. One of a few voices that _mattered_ , and certainly the one that mattered the _most_. “Sweetheart. . . ?”

 

“Yeah, Flyboy, it’s me—gotta keep moving, or we’re gonna be in some trouble, okay? The junker’s not _too_ far, so just . . . just. . . .”

 

“Burns,” Poe mumbled around agony that consumed him from his molecules to his nerve-endings. It wrapped around his limbs and torso, arced across his skull, and crawled up his spine and down his throat. He knew he had to stay conscious, stay upright, stay in motion. In spite of every inch of his body being the definition of _hurt_.

 

He _couldn’t stop,_ because if he did . . . if he _did_. . . .

 

After this fuzzily alarming realization, Poe found the wherewithal to force himself onward wherever Finn was leading. Step by agonizing step, Poe kept on. Even as his consciousness began to drift, his legs made progress with their wobbly shuffle. Though that progress was due almost entirely to the aid of the warmbrightscaredeverything presence bearing most of Poe’s achingburningheavynumb weight.

 

It wasn’t long before Poe stopped trying to keep his eyes open. Wasn’t long before his stubborn limbs grew lethargic and cold, even for Nakadia’s northernmost city.

 

Poe Dameron was going into shock.

 

Poe Dameron was . . . _drifting_. Up into the stratosphere, sans junker. Climbing to heights far above the pain and heat, noise and confusion. Far above _himself_.

 

Yet he remained tethered to himself by the kite-string of that warmbrightscaredeverything presence and _strength_ at his side.

 

That presence and strength was—and had perhaps _always_ been—his true foundation. The bedrock upon which he stood and the good earth he called home. He was tethered not just to his agonized flesh—said agony growing hotter, sharper, and _legion_ with each passing nanosecond—but to that presence. To its warmth and brightness, companionship and acceptance. To its unending and unconditional _love_ . . . and _by_ his own requited love, admiration, and affection.

 

So tethered, he hovered above it all, somehow, in stasis. In limbo. Caught _above_ his body, his foundation, his love— _his Finn_ . . . his bright, warm _, perfect_ Finn—and below . . . _eternity_. Hovering, Poe watched his captainless body shake and convulse, as Finn persevered. As he gave up on any attempt at stealth and inconspicuousness, and hefted Poe’s body in an over-the-shoulder carry. Despite that extra weight, he still managed to sprint quickly across the tarmac, to the waiting junker.

 

He was so vivid and radiant—so incandescently _beautiful_ that he outshone every bit of Poe’s relentless, consuming agony. And yet. . . .

 

And yet, even that beauteous brightness began to fade for Poe, as he heard the call of and turned to regions _beyond_ the cool-dark orbit of his failing lifeforce and the failing universe.

 

Existence was little more than half-light and half-life, restrained by an eroding tether. Until, suddenly, the tether . . . broke.

 

Poe Dameron was _free_.

 

Drifting out of orbit and into the black beyond it, _Poe Dameron was free_. He was undertaking a journey from which few had returned. Beyond the dark of his journey, he knew, was a Light so perfect and warm and _beautiful_ — _like Finn . . . like Finn . . . multiplied by a trillion and wrapped all around me forever_ —that within it, there could be no Dark. And all that had ever been wrong would be made _right._

 

It was a place that had never known pain and fear and despair. Not ever. A place beyond shadows and regrets, and Poe. . . .

 

Poe would return _at last_ , to that from which all things had once come. Just like everyone else had and everyone else would. Death was a battle all faced in turn, and few, if any, won. Like the Force, it could and would outwait even the most powerful.

 

So, Poe would face that death—face _eternity_ —alone, as had every individual before him. As would every individual _after_ him. He would face it with sadness, yes, but also with hope. With the growing certainty that the concepts of _death_ and _alone_ , would soon cease to mean much, at all.

 

It was inevitable and right, this progression. And, most importantly, _it was_. It simply _was_. But Poe’s understanding and acceptance was leavened by regret that would have stolen his breath, had such a physical process still been at all relevant to him.

 

 _I’m sorry, Pop_ , he thought, drifting along the roads of night, and onward to a sweet and eternal dawn. An ultimate _homecoming_ , in which all knowledge of his self as a separatedistcretealone being would fade, and he would be One, at last. _Forever One_ with That Which Moved Through and Behind All Things, just as _It_ had always been one with _him_. He would be _home_ , wrapped in LOVEHOMEALL that could never be _earned_ , only accepted with relief and joy. That was inevitable and right and _it was_ , but Poe . . . _regretted deeply_ , nonetheless. _I love you, Finn, and I’m sorry I’m leaving you. But I’ll be waiting for you in_ Always _. I’ll be—_

 

Suddenly the cool, soothing dark washed away even that final regret, and Poe Dameron was no longer moving toward that infinity-dawn, but he was in it. _Of it_. The last of the hot-bright-pain of his death was gone and forgotten. And the warm-bright-pure- _joy_ of love—his own and Finn’s—became _part_ of that dawn. Was another glorious gradient among an infinity of colors. . . .

 

Poe Dameron hadn’t _wanted_ to die but he was—as ever, when faced with unavoidable eventualities—ready to work with what he could not change.

 

And in an eternity of eternities, or maybe the blink of an eye—or, who knew, perhaps it already _had_?—the dawn that had claimed Poe would also welcome _Finn_.

 

When that happened, the memories and persona and _love_ that had once been _Poe Dameron_ would rise briefly and individuate from that dawn to greet Finn. At long last, they would be one with _each other_ —One, together, _and_ One with that perpetual sunrise—forever. Far beyond the point which the concept of _eternity_ even had any meaning.

 

This hadn’t been what Poe Dameron had wanted. Not yet, and maybe not at all. At the very least, it was too soon, and what had gone before had been too _brief_ . . . too brief.

 

But that, too, simply was. Beyond change or lamentation, it simply _was_.

 

Whether now or later, Poe would have ended up _here_ , for there was no _other place_ to end up. This dawn was everything that ever was and would ever be. It was the beginning and the end, and the beginning and the end after _that_ , ad infinitum. And though it’d once been his _hope_ that they’d both pass away peacefully, together—arms tight around each other, after a long, good, loving life—dying _alone_ had been expected, if not so soon.

 

Romantic nature aside, Poe would be the first to happily see his bright, beautiful Finn live forever, if that was what he wanted. . . .

 

But, of course, that was impossible. Or at least _extremely improbable_.

 

Eventually—whatever _that_ meant . . . Poe’s tentative understanding and sketchy-incomplete perception of “time” was already fading, like a banal dream upon waking—Finn would join him in this forever-sunrise, which was Beyond Shadows. And the concepts of _death_ and _alone_ would mean _absolutely nothing at all_.

 

Then, “Poe Dameron” would _truly_ rest.

 

#

 

. . . and Finn _did_ join him.

 

But . . . he did not become One with and of the Many.

 

This wasn’t obvious at first for, as had all who’d gone before, Finn Solo arrived in eternity like one gorgeous dawn in the midst of another. In this place of infinities of subtle and blended-similar gradients—each more restful and calm than the last— _Finn Solo arrived_. Burning and bright like a comet, he entered the fragile, unchallenged, and surely-doomed atmosphere of Always. Ever-consuming, but never consumed.

 

He strode into that sunrise Beyond Shadows like grim, unmalleable purpose, moments or eternities after— _before?_ —what had once been _Poe Dameron_ had done the same. And he came bearing a light vastly different from the warm, golden light once-Poe Dameron would have recognized. This light was golden, _still_ , after a fashion. But the warmth . . . _supernova_ at its burning-nuclear heart, it was a deep, blood-red throb that spoke of wanting and _taking_ . . . reclaiming.

 

It took no solace or comfort—gave nothing and took nothing from the sunrise. It was Apart. Discrete. And _alone_. It wanted nothing but the facet of One-and-Many that had been Poe Dameron, and it traveled in the quiddity of that eternal Here and Now like a torpedo through an ocean. It sought and searched with intent that was keen and cruel, ruthless and tireless.

 

Yet no less shining and pure, and in ways that rivaled the Beyond Shadows.

 

The facet of Forever that had once expressed _Poe Dameron_ to nothing more or less than Itself, looked up. _Sat up. Differentiated_ and defined itself as Separate from Itself, accompanied by agony and despair and the return of alone-ness.

 

The agony and despair—of which the sundering presence of this Other and newly-returned PoeDameron-facet were an alpha-omega mobius-strip of restless _need_ —grew, as did the alone-ness, despite the distracting, eternal welcome and embrace of the forever-sunrise. The Poe Dameron-facet continued to express individuation. To express _Self_.

 

 _Finn Solo_ , the facet recognized and understood, as a deeply broken heart which nonetheless has continued to beat.

 

 _Finn Solo_ , the Other also expressed, and not simply as a greeting, confirmation, and announcement. Nor as mere acknowledgement of the Self being resurrected from the most Hallowed ground.

 

It expressed _Finn Solo_ as a command and a rallying cry. As an advance that would hear of no retreat, and insistence that knew no rest. It was brighter and bigger than even the sunrise that was All Things, and an immutable beginning and end unto itself. This Finn Solo-Other was _not_ eternal— _no thing_ that strove to exist Apart from the sunrise was eternal, only very misguided, selfish, and desperate for a state which could not be _without_ the weight of _All of Everything_ behind it . . . a state which could not truly be known by _only_ one, because it had _always been for One_ —but the fire and immediacy of its need and determination disrupted the sunrise.

 

The supernova-presence that began blotting out eternity with its _Finn Solo-ness_ , was changing the Immutable. The Beyond Shadows was no longer a faceted One-made-of-Many, but an incohesive and inchoate many-made-of-ones. _Other_ facets, besides the Poe Dameron-facet, began to look up and sit up, differentiate and define . . . to _separate_. From each other and from Always.

 

This was more than a disturbance of the Force, this . . . was _many_ Disturbances. Infinite disturbances in all moments to the entirety of the Beyond Shadows. An injection of focused, directed _will_ and innocent, _brutal_ desire: devastating purity and simplicity of intent, invading a place where those existed as mere memory.

 

In this Place, where order and peace did not exist simply because _disorder and conflict never had_ —in this place where All was all and no thing was anything Else—Finn Solo _was_ disorder. He was _conflict_. He was a _second entity_ . . . an _other_ which was beyond the infinite One. The ultimate anomaly in this continuum where the concept of _other_ did not and should _never_ exist.

 

For the first time in a span the concept of “time” could never even begin to describe, here was an _Else_. A _Besides_. A _One_ that existed apart from Everyone and a thing that existed separate from Everything.

 

 _Almost_ everything.

 

Finn Solo was in eternity, and _eternity was responding_ . . . but not as One. As _many_. It was falling apart, falling to rancor as he was welcomed and forbidden and despaired of in as many different ways as there had ever been individuals in the entire, creeping sprawl of material existence.

 

Finn Solo saw and did not see any of this. He continued to raze eternity, brighter than the everlasting event-horizon that was Perpetuation, announcing himself not with ego, but with a hope that was far, far more destructive and merciless. With _will_ that was burning and dark, and as determined as it was tireless. He expressed his _Finn Solo-ness_ not for attention, or mere reaction and echoes.

 

He searched for _recognition and affinity._

 

He searched for the one that had once expressed _Poe Dameron-ness_.

 

And as Everything argued with Itself and drew away from Itself in realization, recall, fury, disgust, and dissent, the facet that had once been—and was once again becoming— _Poe Dameron_ broke free of Infinity . . . just as it’d once broken free of Finity.

 

The breaking _hurt_.

 

Beyond any remembered injury or grief, disappointment or injustice, being an individual—a one, instead of the Poe Dameron-tinted remembrance that One occasionally recalled to Itself—separation . . . _being sundered_ was indescribably awful. Naked. _Alone_.

 

It was escalating torture that was made exponentially worse when _this one_ , this _Poe Dameron_ said the only thing it could to halt the disorder and chaos—the bright-hot disturbance and distress—that perfect peace and unity and safety had fallen to.

 

To which, if not calmed, it might fall forever.

 

“ _I’m here, sweetheart_ ,” this . . . _Poe Dameron_ said—though, in the silence and light of Beyond Shadows, it was less like _saying_ and more like _shining_ : all glimmer, gradient, hue, pulse, and truth . . . and a pair of arms that would always be open. It was announcement and welcome and distraction. It was a trap that drew the spiraling focus of the Finn Solo-ness from this fractured place of ones and manys which had forgotten how to be One. “It’s _me_ , it’s . . . Poe. _I’m_ here.”

 

Instantly, that hot-bright focus was on Poe Dameron, surrounding him and seeking comfort in arms they’d both rediscovered. In love that was as encompassing and _Always_ as eternity.

 

That love was familiar and _sweet_ . . . beautiful and sad. It was everything, even as it _wasn’t_ , and it, too, hurt so very much. The sundering that had begun with Poe Dameron’s affinity to and acceptance of a self beyond the One in which he’d been so deeply entrenched and diffused—and continued with a recognition and cleaving, to that which was _not_ part of Everything—was completed. A wall made of nothing less than the entirety of material existence was being erected between Poe Dameron and Finn Solo, and the One behind all things.

 

“I _found you_ , Poe,” Finn sighed and hitched as they clung to each other. Rather, Finn pulsed and shone so bright, gold and white and blood-red, that Poe Dameron could barely bear to hold onto him, let alone look at him. But he did both, and let Finn’s relief and joy sweep him away from the place they would eventually come back to. Let it build that separating wall out of components he suspected the average Force-sensitive couldn’t name or understand. And perhaps even Finn—not remotely average, as evidenced by . . . _all this_ —seemed to be running on ancient instinct and raw power. On the sort of will hinted at only in fading legends. “I found you.”

 

“Yeah, sweetheart, you did,” Poe Dameron agreed, immortally wounded, bereft, confused, and nonetheless ecstatic. Wrapped around and wrapped-up in Finn-Finn- _Finn_ , he couldn’t be anything less and, maybe, might someday be even _more_.

 

All of eternity was forsaken—including warmclosefond facets that had once been labeled _Shara Bey_ , _Cantilo Bey,_ and _Balayn Rokaa_. . . or, _Mama, Grandpa,_ and _Corporal ‘Layn_ —and all knowledge and memory of being One was let go without pause or regret. Poe Dameron _clung_ to the only thing for which it would ever be worth giving up perfect and everlasting peace, and belonging. “You sure did.”

 

And thus, they were erased from the Beyond Shadows, only to manifest into the bright-dark confusion of time and space, of _self_ and _others_. They’d moved and had been moved back to the place from whence they’d come, which was also the place they would eventually leave, only to once again _go_ , and over and over for as long as there was one other-being besides One, one other-moment more than Now, and one other-place beyond the Beyond Shadows.

 

 _Poe Dameron and Finn Solo were remade_ . . . for good or ill.

 

They fell and fell, then drifted and drifted. For a span of time that wasn’t _forever_ , merely felt like it, they moved through and were moved by the Force until finally and far too soon, they were defined and separated by something heavywetdenseconstricting.

 

There was a universe-loud _throb_ , like a drum the size of all the galaxies that every were. It was slowly followed by another such throb. And another. And _another_ , gaining speed and determination and _conviction_ , until. . . .

 

. . . until, with a hard and horrible jolt, Poe Dameron was once more firmly ensconced in the fragile, finite organic conveyance of the same name, and drawing hoarse, gasping breaths: in and in and _in_.

 

He coughed and choked and sobbed, hands fluttering and clutching weekly at something warm and solid and familiar . . . _right_. That something wrapped around him—as ever it had . . . as ever it had—and held him tight as he shook from alone-ness and confusion, and moaned from the strong, aching throb that reverberated from his core, to his every extant atom. As he relearned how to breathe. How to _be_.

 

How to _not_ fear and loathe the strengthening beat of his own broken-healed heart, in ears that no longer had love for the sound.

 

“Poe Dameron, you’re _alive_?” Finn Solo shined and glowed—asked—exclaimed—all those things and so many more—against Poe’s cold, wet cheek, his lips the barest ghost-brush of motion, reassurance, and satisfaction. Poe shivered, and gasped and groaned. Chilled, but flowing blood and cramping muscles trying to relearn how to be not-dead, swept through his body and limbs like heat. The flush of life, itself.

 

“Hey, b-buddy,” Poe managed through chattering teeth, numb limps, and with a tongue drier than a Tatooine drought. “Fuck happ’ned?”

 

Finn, half on top of him, clinging to him with arms and legs, trailed tender, chilly, sweet kisses to Poe’s lips. He tasted like salt, blood, recycled oxygen. Like life . . . and death. And he branded that taste onto Poe’s solidifying consciousness and psyche. He licked it into those kisses with fierce purity and possessiveness, until Poe, though still gasping and shaking, was also returning the kisses with every iota of weary, shocked, and unfocused ardor in his being.

 

“Nothing. _Everything_.” Finn’s laugh wasn’t the small, shy-uncertain one Poe remembered from just after he’d awoke from his coma. Nor was it the newer one . . . deep, rolling, and _strong_. It was hoarse and shaky and miserable. “ _Bad_ things . . . a lot of them . . . and I’m responsible for them. But I did one _good thing_ that makes it all worth it. I’d do it _all_ again, every last awful thing, because _you’re alive. That’s_ all that matters, even if you hate me now, and can’t forgive or love me, anymore. You’re alive.”

 

“Swee’heart . . . always love ya. . . .”

 

This time, the shaking and sobbing was all Finn, and the kisses all Poe. Uncoordinated and fragmented as those kisses were—by Poe’s oxygen-starved gasps and Finn’s near-hysterical sobs—they were the best thing in the universe. In any universe, Poe was certain. But they stopped when Finn shuddered and let out a low, wounded-animal sound of pain.

 

By the time Poe struggled his impossibly heavy eyelids open, hissing at the sterile, ambient light illuminating their surroundings, Finn’s shaking had become occasional twitches and tics, and his sobs had become silent, sporadic weeping. Poe’s dry, light-sensitive eyes also relearned their business and his hippocampus shuttled recall and recognition to his cortical regions, the metallic-flat colors and ruled-edge inconsistencies directly above him were resolved into the familiar ceiling of their junker.

 

By the time Poe had processed that, and began noticing other things—they were on the floor of the main room, not on Finn’s bunk, and even though he couldn’t quite see BB-8’s charging stand, he knew the astromech wasn’t on it from the lack of barely-audible whirring—Finn had long-since buried his wet, hot face in Poe’s neck, clutching him tight-tight-tight.

 

“ _Please don’t ever die again_ ,” he whisper-begged, small and sad, fearful and fraught.

 

Poe closed his tired-sensitive eyes once more, and simply focused on what was right and familiar and perfect. He focused on _Finn_ : in his arms, safe and warm and alive. . . .

 

. . . and troubled and devastated in ways too deep for Poe to even recognize, let alone separate and categorize.

 

“’Sokay, sweetheart,” he chuffed out in a broken, near-soundless maybe-lie, wrapping ten-ton arms around this man he loved more than eternity—more than paradise—itself. And the closer he held that man, the more he felt the depth of the change and the depth of the chasm that would only separate them and separate them . . . perhaps until it finally devoured all they’d once been. “’Sokay. I still love ya . . . _always_ love ya.”

 

“You shouldn’t. You _shouldn’t. I_ shouldn’t have . . . _I shouldn’t have_. I _knew_ I shouldn’t have, knew there was a reason I _couldn’t_ do it without . . . but instead of accepting that and doing the _right_ thing—instead of _letting you go_ , I. . . .” another deep shudder, and Poe stroked Finn’s hair, murmuring nonsense and comfort that didn’t seem to help. So, even though he didn’t want to know—was afraid to know—Poe asked.

 

“It’ll be okay, sweetheart, just . . . tell me what you did? Maybe we can fix it. Together.”

 

Finn went stock-still, so that the only thing shaking and shuddering was his breath, humid and hot. Then he snorted and chuckled, the hysterics inherent in his amusement no longer _near-_ , but _arrived_.

 

“I made them suffer,” he said, whistling, but quiet. His lips were soft and cool against Poe’s Adam’s apple. “The ‘troopers on our tail. I needed power— _energy_ —to . . . I wouldn’t have had enough power if I didn’t make them _suffer_ until . . . until I was strong enough.” Finn’s voice, dropping steadily lower, was also stiff and scratchy. Rough and hard-brittle, like pig iron after rust got its claws in deep. As he went on, it acquired cracks and strain-fissures, like an aging foundation. “After I’d wrung _every last drop_ of their pain and fear and despair from them, when there was nothing left worth taking, I didn’t need them, so . . .I let them die. Let them _lead me_ to . . . to the same place _you_ went. And you were _happy there_. At peace. I _knew_ that. It was beautiful and safe and warm. It was _everything_ . . . everything you deserved and everything anyone could want. But I didn’t care. _I didn’t care_. I’d have burned it all down to get you back. I think I _could have_ , if I’d _needed_ to . . . I could’ve done _anything_. I was so strong and sure—so _powerful_. Right and wrong didn’t even matter anymore. Maybe they never will again. But I don’t care, because you’re _alive_. You’re here, with me, and that’s _all_ that matters. Not the suffering of a bunch of dead ‘troopers, or messing up the peace of . . . _whatever_ that place was. _You’re alive_ , and that’s that. It’s _done_ , and I’m _never_ looking back.”

 

On that note of trembling stubbornness, crumbling conviction, and shaky fortitude that couched his truth in ragged, desperate lies, Finn fell silent. Poe didn’t and couldn’t immediately respond. He simply listened to both their breathing and bodies. To their elevated _heartbeats_ . . . twin tattoos echoing back and forth between and through flesh, like interrelation between parallel and complimentary universes.

 

Poe listened to the ratchet-clank-hum of the junker and, from the direction of the cockpit, the occasional anxious beep. He absently hoped his little buddy wasn’t having too tough a time keeping autopilot on course. The junker’s nav system was banjaxed, and often less reliable than a retrofitted R5-D4 with an upgraded motivator. Which made playing navigator a trial even for an astromech as quick and smart as Bee.

 

“So, I was really dead,” Poe said, after a few minutes of wonder and horror warring within. Neither side was especially close to what would surely be a Pyrrhic victory. “ _I died_.”

 

“Yeah,” Finn said, thick and teary. He cleared his throat and laughed a little. It was desperate and quietly hysterical. “Yeah, you died.”

 

“And you brought me back.” Poe’s own voice was starting to go, too. Harsh, croaking, and pained-sounding.

 

“Yes,” Finn said, his voice breaking not with regret or uncertainty, anymore, but with satisfaction and certainty. With grim righteousness and a towering lack of doubt that Poe didn’t want to label, but Luke or Rey probably could. “I brought you back.”

 

“Thank you, Finn. But ya gotta . . . ya gotta tell me how to bring _you_ back, sweetheart,” Poe whispered into Finn’s hair. It smelled of blood and sweat, ozone and ash. “I’ll do whatever, just . . . _help me bring you back, too_.”

 

“I don’t think you can,” Finn admitted with relief and serenity. Both seemed born of hopelessness and despair so unruffled it was absolutely featureless . . . like a mirrored wall. “I don’t think there _is_ a way back for me. Not . . . not from this. And I still don’t care. I’d still do it again. I . . . I’m sorry, Poe. You deserve _better,_ and . . . I don’t think I _can_ be better, anymore. I’m sorry.”

 

“No, no, honey, no . . . that’s not true. Not true _at all_. You’re the best. You’re my _sweetheart_ — _my Finn, who fought death for me and won_ ,” Poe marveled, and Finn chuckled again, tiny and tormented. “I could _never_ hate you and I will always _love_ you.”

 

This time, Finn didn’t even respond with a chuckle, just a shuddering sigh. So, Poe held on tight, kissed Finn’s hair, and murmured any old nonsense that sounded comforting and true. Soon, the words became humming . . . then became _singing_. The simple folk-song—Poe’s favorite in his old life, his _first_ life—came tripping out, soft and hesitant, when all other noises lost their meaning and power completely.

 

[ _If I had wings, like Noah's dove,_ ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=M3b51b-MJ7o)

[ _I'd fly up the river to the one I love._ ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=M3b51b-MJ7o)

[ _Fare thee well, my honey, fare thee well._ ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=M3b51b-MJ7o)

[ _If I met your man, who was long and tall,_ ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=M3b51b-MJ7o)

[ _I'd hit his body like a cannonball._ ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=M3b51b-MJ7o)

[ _Fare thee well, my honey, fare thee well._ ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=M3b51b-MJ7o)

[ _One of these days, and it won't be long,_ ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=M3b51b-MJ7o)

[ _Call my name and I'll be gone._ ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=M3b51b-MJ7o)

[ _Fare thee well, my honey, fare thee well._ ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=M3b51b-MJ7o)

[ _I remember one night, a drizzling rain._ ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=M3b51b-MJ7o)

[ _‘Round my heart I felt an achin' pain._ ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=M3b51b-MJ7o)

[ _Fare thee well, oh, honey, fare thee well._ ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=M3b51b-MJ7o)

 

In his new life, his _second_ life, Poe’s favorite song was thus transformed into a threnody. A dirge for two dead men, and the buried-deep future they’d _almost_ had. . . .

 

And a hymn and lullaby for the lost, sad strangers left behind in their stead.

 

So, Poe sang that lament over and over, his dry eyes tightly shut, until his already-compromised voice was utterly spent. Until Finn, drawing in a long, slow breath which he then let out as a helpless sigh, hugged Poe _tightest_. Then his body sagged and relaxed in sudden unconsciousness that would be several days deep.

 

But Poe didn’t know that as he lay on the floor of the junker’s living-area, Finn’s lax-solid body half on-top of his own. All he knew was the repetitive and soothing sound of his own voice and Llewyn Davis’ words . . . the stroke of his hand over Finn’s hair, and the shuttled gust of Finn’s even, shallow breath on his skin. Like life. Like love.

 

Then Poe, too, sank into silence, stillness, and a sheltering, necessary slumber that featured but one dream:

 

In it, he stood on the edge of a rocky cliff, which overlooked a swirling, endless, howling abyss. Across that chasm, eons away, stood Finn Solo—or _whomever_ Finn had let himself become in pursuit of reclaiming Poe from eternity—lost and alone. And even though _Poe_ could see Finn’s distress clearly, and hear the soft sound of his near-silent weeping, _Finn_ was unable to see Poe. Unable to _hear_ Poe shouting his name, even though Poe shouted long past the point where he could summon even the barest croak.

 

And he awoke _still_ shouting—or trying to—some hours later, clutching Finn’s limp, unconscious body close and tight. But his throat was so raw and injured from shouting in his nightmare, he could only push out useless air in his bleak, waking reality.

 

TBC

**Author's Note:**

> **NOTE (02.09.2018): This fic is NOT on hiatus. I'm currently chipping away at it in tiny-ass steps. "Tiny-ass" mostly because I didn't finish the final chapter before TLJ was scheduled to leave my local theater. So, I saw it the final night of its tenure and . . . since then, nothing I write in this story makes a damned bit of sense and my brain/heart go haywire. The ending I _had_ planned makes less sense than thirteen o'clock. I can't tell if that's because it really doesn't fit, or because TLJ broke my head- and heart-meats so bad that until I recover from it--it's been two weeks, almost--nothing will make sense. But I'm trying. I haven't given up or forgotten, despite the loads of Dragon Age fic I'm turning out. I have to write or go nuts(er) and if the Stormpilot ain't flowin', I gotta write _whatever will_. Being stymied so close to the end of THIS fic, however, is . . . enraging. My stubborn and contrary nature alone will keep me chipping away, rest assured. But it may take a few more weeks :-/ ******
> 
> ****Find me on[Tumblr](http://beetle-ships-it-all.tumblr.com)!** **


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